Bloodlust
by MelodyPond123
Summary: Dexter is thrust into the unfamiliar territory of the Winchesters, where he finds the lines between reality and fantasy, and monster, hunter and killer blur. Spoilers: This happens after the end of the series Dexter, and so contains major spoilers for all significant events. Rating for violence, blood and full range of swearing as seen in Dexter.
1. Chapter 1

He was crossing the main yard of the logging camp from his cabin, getting ready to hit the road, when it struck. The last thing he saw was the streak of blue-white light coursing down from the tumultuous sky, he could hear it sizzling past snowflakes, and then the indescribable sense of buzzing, vibration hit as the energy raced down his spine and through his body. Searing red had streaked his vision, and everything had gone black.

Cold, the next thing he felt was cold. Stinging, biting his ears, stealing the sensation of his skin, seeping its numbness into his face, tingling in his limbs, burning through his extremities as he struggled to move them. His eyes tore open, and his lips, raw with cold and speckled in frost, cracked open, the stiffness of his jaw grinding as he did so. Light blinded him; sun, sunlight. He saw the evanescent puffs of his own breath condensing into smoke-like bursts as he rasped for air. It too burned going in, frigid in his nostrils, searing his airways, stinging his lungs. It was daylight.

Daylight? I've been out here through the night?

But how? I should be dead, he thought, his neck cracking as he heaved to lift his head. His bones felt frozen through, as if the joints themselves had frozen solid.

He glanced about the clearing of the camp yard. Something's wrong, he realized. None of the guys' cars were there. Only that broken-down pickup—he gazed over at it, noticing the splotches of rust between patches of snow that had fallen from its sides, its oxidized surface red like blood against the sterile white of snow.

Blood.

The need washed over him again.

…..

He was sitting in the driver's seat of an old black minivan, engine off. The seats were a cold black leather, the chill seeping out of them into his skin through his jeans.

He'd come down from the frigid mountains where the camp was in that pickup, with his few belongings, his laptop, his kit, a few changes of clothes, and his savings in cash, in the passenger's seat. It had taken excruciating hours of trying to get the truck to start, and even longer to reach civilization. He'd taken a room at a hotel in town, and layer low for a few days, the urge slowly building. It was overwhelming at times, but he tamped it down over and over… He couldn't possibly go for a kill anyway, in his condition. Recently struck by lightning? No, he needed a few days. So he'd taken them. And even then, he had to find a proper target, which was what he was up to now.

He was parked in a back alley in one of the seediest areas of the town. He'd heard on the news at the motel he'd stayed in that disappearances were happening increasingly in this area. Why not go and stake it out, he had thought. Tonight would be just fine to find a worthy target…

The crash of a a trashcan lid pierced the silence, snapping him out of his daze. In the flickering shadows, he made out the figure of a scantly-clad girl of roughly twenty stumbling between tall metal trash bins, a look of panic on her face. She was running, from what, he couldn't tell. He sprung into action, cranking the car, gunning the engine, so that he intercepted her path farther up the alley where she was floundering through the spilled detritus.

She paused for a moment of indecision beside the van as stopped.

Dexter threw open the door, calling out "Hey, come here!"

A look of horror crossed her face, and she started to run again, her gait lopsided and wobbly, he realized, because she was missing one of her high heels.

He jumped from his seat, catching up to her in a few strides, and grabbed her by the upper arm.

She jerked the other way, trying to claw his face with her free hand.

He caught the wrist, bringing it in towards her body, turning her as he did so that he was between her and whatever she had been running from.

"Hey, it's OK. What's going on?" He said, releasing his grip on her.

"You've got to help me, th-they're coming," she sobbed, tears trickling from her eyes, mixing with dirt and blood that was smeared with the running makeup she wore.

"OK, just get in the van." he replied, taking her hand to hurry her to it.

She panicked again, snatching her arm from him.

"How-how do I know you're not with him?"

"You'll just have to take that chance," he replied, shoving her toward the van as he yanked the back door open.

She scrambled in, still shaking with terror. He slammed the door shut after her, locking the van with the beeper as he took off up the alley toward the row of trashcans she'd stumbled through.

He heard a male voice shout, "Hey, come back here!" as running footsteps pounded up the alleyway. He reached in his pocket for the needle of sedative he carried, a dark satisfaction creeping through his mind.

He'd found his target.

Clanking on the roof of the building beside him drew his attention. Wait, someone's up there, he thought.

He heard a grunt, and looked up just in time to see a figure fling itself off the roof directly overhead—

The dark shape coursed downwards, air hissing between its limbs, as he tried to sidestep. Too late, he realized, when the jolt of its feet crashing against his chest wracked him, sending him sprawling, his head smacking against the pavement. His ribs were on fire, and it was hard to breathe past the enormous pressure on his chest. The figure, he saw, scrambled to its feet, and approached him, hissing. It crouched over him, lunging for his neck. He felt something puncture his skin, a vague pain as the world slipped away. A gunshot whispered into his ears just as everything faded away to the silent depths of unconsciousness.

As he came to, he felt the shuddering of deceleration on gravel, and the growl of an engine dying. He groped around himself in darkness, his fingers smashing against cold metal overhead, grating over rough carpet underneath.

I'm in the trunk of a car, he thought, his mind exploding in a pulsing, wordless rage to match the heavy throb of his head.

He took in a deep breath that expanded his chest, screaming silently as it sent a cage-like swath of pain coursing through his chest wall.

Shit, he thought. I've probably cracked some ribs….

He remembered the impact of feet on his chest. The hissing figure approaching, the gunshot.

He felt in his pocket for his needles, his phone. They were gone.

What the hell is going on? He wondered, as he heard the doors of the car slam shut, and the footfalls of multiple people walking from it, the rasp of something heavy being dragged across gravel. Heavy…..like a body?

A door creaked open and slammed shut some distance away, and he was alone again in quiet.

He felt around with his feet until he found the taillight, and struggled to roll over, which sent a wave of pain over him that stole his breath. A wordless groan escaped his lips as he tensed. He waited a few moments for the agony to fade, bending his knees and flexing his hips as far as he could so that he was ready to kick backwards against the taillight.

As the squeak of a door opening met his ears, he froze, waiting to see what was going to happen.

Shit. They're coming back, he thought. But if I fake being out, I could surprise them…

He instinctively tensed to fight as the crunch of footsteps on gravel drew near. He shut his eyes, ready to play dead, as he heard click and squeak of a key in the lock of the trunk.

Sunlight poured in, covering the backs of his eyelids in streaks of brownish-gold. He carefully cracked an eye, only enough so he could see in shadows, but shut enough, he hoped, so it didn't look open. He saw an enormous figure standing over him, reaching down to him. They're gonna get me out, he realized. This is my chance.

He forced himself to relax his body. Then the giant stuck a hand under his body, as if to pick him up. A low groan escaped his lips as he tensed with a spasm of pain.

Shit. Shit, shit, he thought, realizing his cover was blown.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're waking up," the man muttered, withdrawing his hand. "Look, I'm not here to hurt you," he continued awkwardly, taking a step back.

Dexter opened his eyes, blinking slowly, feigning being dazed. He moaned again. The sunlight blazing into his retinas felt like it was searing his brain. Oh, I'd be worried for you, he thought, grim with irony.

"Hey," the guy standing over him said softly.

"Wh-who the hell are you?" Dexter replied slowly, his voice rasping in his throat, each word sending pain stabbing throughout his chest wall.

"Sam. And you are?"

Why the hell is he telling me his name, he wondered absently between the pounding of his head and the blinding light searing his eyes.

"Why would you care?" So much for having to pretend to be out of it, he thought. I sound like shit.

"Suit yourself. Look, really, sorry about the whole trunk deal. We had a, uh, issue, that took up the back seat," Sam said, his eyebrows knitting themselves into an apologetic expression.

"Do I even want to know?" Dexter replied hoarsely.

"Probably not. But, point is, I'm not here to hurt you. I can't really explain it right now, but somebody hurt you, and we have to make sure you're OK before we let you go."

"What's that supposed to mean?" This is a weird ass kidnapping, he thought. "Make sure if I'm OK?"

"Let's just get you inside," Sam replied, extending a hand toward him. "And, please, don't try to run. It's easier on both of us if you don't."

Dexter took the hand up, groaning despite his effort not to, as he heaved himself into a sitting position. Try to run? He didn't think he could if he had to at the moment.

The world started to spin as he scrambled out over the edge of the trunk, pain stealing his breath from inside him. He stumbled as his vision fuzzed out to gray, stayed hands catching him by the shoulder, easing him back to lean on the side of the car.

"Whoa there, you really took a nasty fall," Dexter heard him say, the words muffled, as if heard through water, "the way he jumped on you."

Struggling to find the words as his brain began to come back from the mushy gray of standing too fast, Dexter muttered, "Wha-who was it that jumped on me?"

"Don't know his name. We've got him though. Nasty son of a bitch."

"What do you mean, you've _got_ him?" Feeling stable enough to stand on his own, he made a shooing motion with his hand to get the guy to lay off.

"Doesn't really matter. But it's OK, we specialize in taking care of this kind of thing, me and my brother," Sam replied.

"If you say so," Dexter replied, putting a hand to his forehead as if rubbing it would stop the pounding.

_Taking care of_, he thought, his mind lurching from hearing the familiar euphemism. In this context, it surely meant only one thing….

He was dealing with _specialists_ something like himself.

"You ready to try to walk," Sam asked.

"Sure," Dexter grunted, grimacing as he righted himself from where he'd been slumping against the car.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered breathlessly, taking a couple shuffling steps, nearly stumbling as he did so.

Sam grabbed his arm.

Dexter shirked as he did so, but reluctantly succumbed himself to Sam's grasp as he struggled to walk, the world spinning with each step he took.

Sam slowly lead him to the door of a beaten up cinderblock building.

By the time they were inside, Dexter felt ready to pass out again.

Sam dragged an old chair from a corner over to Dexter, who was leaning against the wall beside the door, panting.

He sat in it immediately, groaning and nauseous from the bizarre vertigo the exertion of crossing the yard had brought on.

"Just stay here, rest, you lost a lot of blood," Sam told him, his voice filtering into Dexter's perception through the fog of exhaustion as he moved to get something from a shelf nearby.

He came back to Dexter, something metallic clinking in his hands.

Handcuffs, Dexter realized, a little too late, as he felt Sam snap one end around his wrist.

With what felt a monumental effort, he clumsily jerked his arm away, only to feel the bruising force against his own wrist as the cuffs yanked taut, Sam having already fastened the other end to a metal ring bolted to the wall behind him.

"Shit,"he sputtered.

"Sorry, it's just a precaution," Sam told him, now crossing the room toward a refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of orange liquid, Dexter observed as he struggled to keep his eyes open. He came back to Dexter, pressing the bottle, a sports drink, into his free hand.

"Drink this slowly," he said. "I'll be back."

Sam opened and went through a door in the opposite wall of the room, descending creaking wooden steps into a room below.

Too exhausted to do much else, Dexter looked at the drink in his hand.

I saw his face, he thought. There's no way they're letting me go. It's probably spiked.

With that realization, he dropped the bottle, letting it roll slowly across the room.

There's nothing I can do right now, he decided. I need to rest…..


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, how's that guy doing?" Dean asked as Sam entered the basement.

"Not so good. He's pretty beat up," Sam replied. "And I can't tell whether this freak managed to get blood in him or not."

"Well, that's fine. Maybe we can get an answer out of him," Dean said, motioning to the unconscious vampire strapped to the chair in the middle of the room.

"Yeah, he should be waking up soon, if you didn't give him any more dead man's blood since the car ride."

"Nah, he's only got what you gave him and what came off the bullet. He'll come to shortly."

Dexter woke up, his neck incredibly stiff, head dully pounding, chest aching, dried blood itching on his head, neck, and arms. He groaned softly, moving his hand to scratch his face, his arm stopped far short by the unyielding hold of the handcuffs. He quickly remembered all that had transpired, and why he was sitting in the dimly lit dusty room.

He muttered angrily.

These morons, he thought, have no idea who they're messing with.

He looked over his shoulder at the shelf nearby, gauging whether he could reach anything on it. Utility items littered its recesses; oil cans, an ax or two, machetes, wrenches, bottles of cleaner, pliers, bolt cutters, which were far out of reach, hammers, oil cans, coils of rope, chain, duct tape, boxes of rock salt, gallon jugs of what looked like water, a couple strange ancient-looking pitchers, and, then, craning his neck, he saw it: a coil of heavy wire on a nearer part of the shelf.

I could pick the lock with that, he thought. If I can reach it….

He carefully stood, trying not to make any noise, and strained, breathless from the pain in his chest, to reach the wire on the shelf.

Moving his arm, stretching from fingertips down to the girdle of muscle in his shoulder pulled on his pecs and intercostal muscles, making his body scream in opposition.

Yet, despite his effort, his fingertips reached at furthest, several inches from it. Frustrated, he made a sound, half a groan, half a growl.

This isn't working, he realized.

He looked around for something within his reach. He snagged a hammer from the shelf from a spot within his reach nearer him, and turned it backwards, to use the claw to grapple for the wire.

One nudge from it, and the coil hung precariously halfway on halfway off the shelf.

No, no, he breathed. Don't fall…..

A careful flick and it skidded an inch or two back onto the shelf.

A satisfied grin crossed his face, and he aligned the hammer for another stroke, this time to pull it along the shelf toward him.

One, two pulls, and it was within reach.

He grabbed it, returning to his seated position so that he could work with both hands. It was of a very stiff steel composition. Perfect. It wouldn't simply bend like other metals might.

After a few moments' effort, fumbling one-handed with the end of the piece of wire in the lock on the handcuffs, he heard a click.

Hell yes, he thought, I've got it, as he opened the cuff from around his wrist, grimacing as it clanked noisily against the cinderblock wall.

Shit, they could've have heard that, he thought.

He wanted nothing more than to storm down the stairs, and take on his captors, but logic told him not to.

No, he couldn't take them both on in his current state, and had none of his normal tools.

I need to get out of here….

He tried the door, each step he took intensifying the throbbing in his head, and the burning of his chest. It opened with a grating squeak, and he lunged outside, jogging past the imposing black muscle car in the drive, gasping with pain as he made his way toward the road.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey, how you feelin'?" called Sam as he ascended the stairs. Silence.

He stepped through the door, heart sinking when he saw the empty chair and dangling handcuffs.

"Dean!" he called.

"Yeah, what's the matter?"

"We've got a problem. He got away."

"Oh, shit," Dean said, coming up the stairs to see for himself. "Do you think he was changing?"

"I don't know, were both with the vamp! I had him cuffed to the wall. He must have picked the lock."

"Yeah. Look, we gotta find him," Dean said.

"Well, he's probably at an ER," Sam replied.

"Unless he's changing. Then he'll be the freaking Hulk."

"OK, so maybe you take hospitals, I take crime scenes," Sam said.

"Whatever it takes, we have to find him and make sure he's not turning," Dean asserted.

"Yeah," Sam conceded grimly.

…

The guy he had hitched a ride with had first insisted on taking him to the ER, but eventually relented to let him get off at his motel. Much to his relief, Dexter found his card key was still zipped into the inner pocket of his jacket. Stumbling through the door, he went to the bathroom, stripping his jacket and shirt off. He inspected himself in the mirror; huge swaths of red-purple bruising covered his sternum and side. His face was coated in dried blood that had dripped down from a cut on his temple, and a ripped-up gash of skin on his neck was similarly crusted. Not entirely certain why, he realized, he was feeling much better in terms of the pain in his chest and the faintness. Not exactly typical of a concussion, he decided. No, what had been going on earlier was. This was….different.  
>Maybe it's the adrenaline, he thought. His head was pounding, his heart racing, and noises and light seemed amplified. Adrenaline….<p>

Shouldn't that have kicked in earlier, he wondered.

Pushing his thoughts aside, he went to work cleaning himself up, wiping away the blood and grime from his face and neck and arms, and changed clothes.

Then he sat down at his computer.

Sam, who are you, he asked himself.

A few deft clicks took him to his favorite search engine, where he typed in 'sam abduction,' and hit search.

News reports that dominated the results mentioned a pair of brothers, with headlines like: Killer Brothers Wanted in Chicago, Fatal Bank Robbery Blamed on Ruthless Winchester Brothers; Killer Brothers evade Capture; Serial Killer Pair Dead in Explosion- dead? he scoffed. No, they were certainly alive. Someone had the gumption to pull off one of the boldest cons in the book.

He continued scanning the headlines: Infamous Winchesters Return to Strike Again. He read on, report after report, of a Samuel and Dean Winchester, brothers from Lawrence, Kansas, who were wanted for a variety of crimes— credit card fraud, auto theft, bank robbery, impersonation of law enforcement, abduction, shootings, stabbings, grave desecration, and evading arrest.

In the mug shots, he recognized Sam. An image of their car popped up, on a public warning, and he recognized it, too.

Further down the page, he came across something odd.

The brothers were characters mentioned in some sort of book. On the occult….

He shook his head. Sick freaks. They deserved it as much as anyone he'd targeted.

But why haven't I heard of them, he wondered. If they're this well-known?

Thinking of reputation and news reports of fake deaths made him wonder what had been said about his own 'death.'

Had Hanna been looking for him? How were Harrison, Cody and Astor doing?

On impulse, he searched his own name, expecting something about his being lost at sea during the storm.

Nothing relevant came up.

No mention of his death in the Miami newspapers.

What the hell, he muttered absently.

Could Hanna have suspected he was alive? Had she gotten someone to erase his name from the internet somehow as a secretive call for him to contact her?

Mystified, he searched her name.

Nothing.

He searched the name of the storm they had parted during.

There was no storm Laura.

He searched Rita's name.

Nothing.

He looked on the Miami Dade city police site for any mention of himself or Deb.

Nothing. No mention of her, nor of LaGuerta, Batista, Masuka, Doakes, Matthews, or even his father.

He searched the names the press had given to high profile cases they had worked, and the names of his many victims.

Nothing. Not one mention of missing persons, nor obituaries, memorial notices, announcements of promotion, announcements of birth or weddings, or anything.

There was simply, absolutely nothing there.

He floundered through several different search engines, with a variety of terms.

Nothing. There was nothing relevant to him, his life, the cases he'd worked, his victims, or anyone he'd ever known.

He snapped his laptop shut, his heart racing.

What in the hell is going on, he wondered. It's like I've never existed.

Like no one I knew, or anything I ever did, has ever existed, he realized, a chill creeping over him. 


	5. Chapter 5

But, how? It seemed virtually impossible.

Unless….unless someone was trying to send him a message.

He dialed the station number on his room phone, not entirely certain what he was doing.

What was he going to say….

"Hello, Miami Dade police station,"

"Hi, yes, I need to speak to Lieutenant Batista," he said, taking on an accent to disguise his voice.

"I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name," replied the secretary.

"What? When did Batista leave?"

"There's no record of anyone of the name Batista in our system," she explained.

"W-what about Vincent Masuka in forensics?"

He could hear the tap of fingers on a keyboard through the phone.

"Sorry, no Masuka here, either."

"Uh—" his voice died in his throat.

"Hello, sir? Is there an issue you need to report?"

"Uh, no, thanks." He hung up, mind racing through the possibilities.

Could someone have bribed the officers on phone duty to pretend not to know who he was talking about? But they wouldn't know it was him calling….

He was calling from a number in Oregon, at a hotel. They wouldn't recognize his voice, either. No, couldn't be some sort of trick….

Shit, he muttered, heart pounding. What in the hell is going on?

Am I losing my mind, he wondered. He opened his computer and flipped back to the search engine. No, the results were still the same. He didn't exist electronically.

And neither did anyone or anything else he knew.

I have to wake up, he thought, panic rising. I'm delirious.

He ran to the bathroom and turned on the shower, jumping in with his clothes on, the cold water pouring over him.

His body shook from the icy water, yet he didn't seem to feel it, and punched the wall, "Shit, shit, shit!"

He leaned against the wall, shivering for a moment before he turned off the water. Some good that did. He was impervious. He looked down at his hands, the broken skin of his knuckles bleeding. There were cracks in the tile on the wall, chips of the ceramic stuck into his skin. Yet he didn't feel any of it.

"Shiiiit," he muttered, sitting on the edge of the tub.

"Just, fucking shit."

…..

Sitting back from the police scanner on the desk, he flipped open his phone, thumbing the speeddial for Dean's number.

It rang twice and then the line opened.

"Hey, Any luck?" Sam asked.

"Nada. We got injured cyclists, car wrecks, grandmas with pneumonia, and a rifleman who shot himself in the ass, but no vamp-snacks," Dean replied.

"Same here," Sam sighed. "I've been working the scanner, but there's nothing of the sort. A convenience store holdup, domestic disputes, but no bodies yet."

"Damn it," Dean spat the words.

"Look, we still gotta find him." Sam said.

"Alright. I'll, uh, see if I can enlist some help," Dean grumbled.

Sam ended the call, sighing. We better find him, he thought, before he finds someone else.

…...

Dexter stood in his room, swearing under his breath, as he stripped off his soaked clothes, puddles collecting on the tiled floor. He threw on a clean teeshirt and jeans, and pulled on a pair of boots.

He sat back down at his laptop, composing himself. A kill would help him feel the clarity he needed, and he had two prime targets now. Brutal serial killers, violent drifters who nobody'd miss.

And he knew with certainty they were guilty. They'd abducted him. Satisfied the Code.

Now to get ready….

Cullen Ridge Road, that was where he had been taken. He remembered seeing the sign as he'd run. A few quick keystrokes, and he pulled up the directions. It was a 30 minute drive from where he was, out toward the west of town. Except he'd need a car…. And as far as he knew, his was across town still in the alley. If it hadn't been towed….

He looked in the suitcase, where he had his extra money. He sighed in relief when he found it still safely stowed away. Perfect.

A quick search earned him the number to a taxi cab, which he dialed on the room phone. His cell, he recalled, was still in the van.

He dialed on the room phone, pacing impatiently until the car arrived. He felt the mounting need as the car pulled up. The cabbie, just sitting there, waiting. No, he shook himself. I have to hold back, he thought. There were to who truly deserved his efforts. Just a short time now, he consoled himself as got in, growling the address of the alley he'd left his van to the driver.


	6. Chapter 6

He fixed his gaze on the window, trying vainly to distract himself from the urge as they sped along toward his destination.

The urge, he realized absently, was taking a new form. He could almost taste the need. It pounded in his ears, and throbbed in the arteries in his head, as if his brain were about to explode. There, there in the front seat was a perfectly suitable victim...whose each wheezing breath, each heartbeat grated at his nerves...

He shook himself, pulling out of his reverie in time to realize they'd arrived at his destination. Barely containing himself, he shoved a large wad of cash to the driver, jumping out of the car, impervious to the cabbie's loud comment. His footsteps pounded in his head as he tromped over to his vehicle. The van's doors were unlocked; he found the copy of the key he kept under the seat cover. He jammed it into the ignition and floored the gas, skirting around the taxi, where it was still parked, its driver excitedly counting the money.

Out of the shade of the alley, the light was blinding. He dug in the center console for his sunglasses. The dark polarized lenses eased the piercing glare, enough so he could stand looking out over the road.

He grumbled absently as the GPS spouted directions in its grating monotone as he drove. His head pounded, the need a wracking swath of pain going through his core.

He jerked the GPS charger out of its plug, throwing it against the window. Ugh. Finally quiet, apart from the growl of the engine. He raced down streets and around turns, furiously retracing the route to Cullen Road where the Winchesters' hideout was by memory alone, a memory he didn't even know he'd retained.

At last, after what seemed forever, he pulled up in the drive, the car skidding on the rocks as he stopped abruptly. He grabbed a syringe from the center console, and jumped out, headed toward the familiar figure in the yard.

"Oh, hey," Sam said. "We were looking everywhere for you."

"Is that so?" He replied cooly, stepping out of van.

"Yeah. You don't know it yet, but you need our help." Sam explained.

"Oh, I don't think so."

The thick, hot smell of a human body flooded his senses as Sam approached.

"I know who you are." He said, reaching into his pocket surreptitiously. Perfect, just a little closer….

"Oh, really?" Sam asked, his expression amused.

"Sam and Dean Winchester."

Sam's expression changed, to one of something like concern, as he glanced back over his shoulder.

"OK, I guess, but we have some important stuff to do now," he motioned for Dexter to follow him, turning to walk back toward the shed, exposing his back to Dexter.

Dexter took the opportunity.

He snagged the syringe out of his pocket as the man was turned away, almost simultaneously, plunging it into Sam's neck.

Dexter grinned, ducking back as Sam reacted, tensing and jerking to claw at Dexter, but too late, too slow, as the drug began to take effect, he was already losing motor control. His movements were loose, floppy, far too slow.

"Dean!" he shouted as he began to fall.

Dean heard the shout from inside the shed, where he scrambled up the stairs, out the door into the yard.

It only took a split second for him to take in what had happened; the vampire-in-the-making had somehow overwhelmed his brother, who was lying slumped in the gravel, the other guy a few yards away opening the back hatch of his van—

"What the hell do you think are you doing to my brother?!" Dean growled, readying himself to plunge his knife, which he'd layered with the dead man's blood into the attacker, who was scrambling back toward him from the open back hatch of van.

"Dean, no," Sam slurred, fighting as the heavy edge of unconsciousness that descended, "Don't, he'll turn, you'll have to kill him—" as he fell unconscious.

Instantly realizing his brother was right, and instead landed a blow on the man's on the temple as he approached. It did little to faze him, he snarled and lunged now toward Dean, who dodged easily, jabbing a fist to the guy's jaw, which this time, hit squarely.

"Seriously?" Dexter hissed, now trying to reach his neck to rip at his flesh.

"No," Dean replied, head butting him away long enough to grab the nearest thing—a shovel lying on the ground.

He took it in both hands, slamming the sharp edge of it against Dexter's chest. He stumbled backward a step, then redoubled his efforts, grabbing the end of it on the next blow Dean tried to land. He twisted it from his grip, throwing it off to the side with a loud clatter.

He was gaining strength…

Dean dodged a lunge for the throat, but Dexter tripped him, sending him sprawling to the ground with a spray of gravel.

Dexter was over him, Dean realized, hissing—Dean kicked out, knocking him back a bit, drawing blood, which dripped—sizzled, in the searing light that immediately appeared behind his head.

Dexter fell forwards, revealing a trench-coated figure behind him. Castiel.


	7. Chapter 7

"G'job, buddy. He dead?" Dean panted, picking himself up.

"No. I merely stunned him." The angel replied with an inquisitive look. "He's not entirely turned, so I didn't suppose you wanted me to kill him yet."

"No. At least, Sammy wouldn't be too happy with that. Speaking of, how about you check him out," Dean replied, frowning as he wiped blood and dirt from his face.

Castiel knelt over Sam, putting a hand to his forehead. After a moment, he looked back up to Dean and reporting, "He's just unconscious. Drugged somehow."

"So, wake him up," Dean instructed gruffly, swearing under his breath as he moved to tie up the felled attacker.

The angel obliged momentarily, helping Sam to his feet as he came to.

"Ugh, what happened exactly?" he groaned.

"Apparently our vamp-boy came back," Dean said,"Planning on us for lunch."

"Yeah, I got that much, but why's Cas here?"

"I called him right before you yelled for me. I was gonna have him search the area. Guess the timing was good though." He smirked.

"Yeah, OK. I guess I'll go ahead and get the cure ready," Sam replied, striding back into the shed, leaving them alone outside.

"Do you require anything further?" Cas asked.

"Well for starters, how about helping me get him inside?" Dean gestured to Dexter, who lay unconscious at their feet.

"Fine." The angel shrugged, moving to help Dean lift the other man's body.

The two groaned with effort as they made their way into the building and down the stairs, finally placing him in a chair in the basement.

Dean grimaced, stretching. "Damn, he's heavy."

"I suppose. But there's something you should know," Castiel replied.

"What?"

"There's something strange about him," the angel began.

"You mean other than being a blood-sucking freak who was about to feast on us?"

"Well that, but I was going to explain, he's different in another way. His soul is different, has a different seal."

"A what? English, Cas. You know I don't speak angel." Dean sat on a stool in the corner, sighing.

"Souls have a sort of mark of origin, like, I don't know, a maker's signature. His was different. Like he's from somewhere else."

"So…what exactly again? Y'know what? Make it stupid this time."

"His soul's got the wrong seal. He's not from here. He's not from this universe." Cas said, his tone hinting at exasperation.

"And you're sure it's not the whole vamp-boy-in-the-making Purgatory kind of seal?"

"Yes. He's not a full vampire yet, believe me, I can tell. But this is unmistakable, although it's kind of bizarre. He's not from this universe."

"And…how exactly would that happen?"

"Like the escape hatch from Purgatory, sometimes there's thin spots between universes. It's possible he just found his way through one."

"OK, fine. Whatever. But unless this makes him super-special, we still have to either cure him or kill him. I'm to see how the cure's coming with Sam. Can you watch him?"

"Of course," Castiel replied.

Dean grunted his thanks as he rose and stomped back up the stairs.

...

As he came to, Dexter sensed the tight cords around his arms, pinning them uncomfortably behind his back, the throbbing of his body, and the burning hunger…

He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the darkness in what he now realized was a basement—the same stale smell as above the ground—no, they had him.

"What the fuck happened?" He muttered.

"What happened? What happened?! You tried to feed on my brother!" An irate voice said as its owner approached from behind him, its owner stepping into the light of the utility lamp that hung suspended from the ceiling.

"Your…brother?"

"Yeah, I'm Dean Winchester, and nobody messes with me or my brother without answering for it. No. Fucking. Body. You hear me? But y'know what, you're kinda lucky. If you behave, you might, might just get another chance. "

"What—what's wrong with you sickos? If you want to kill me, then by all means, quit making excuses. Get it over with!" His words spilled out and hung in the dusty air.

"I do not want to, " replied another Castiel, "But if you do not allow them to heal you, I will have no choice."

"And you are—" Dexter asked.

"This is Cas, he's an angel," Dean cut in. "See, deal is, you got bitten and apparently bled into, by that nasty bloodsucker we ganked earlier, and if we don't do something, you're gonna change, turn into a freaking monster, like him."

"See, I think I must be losing my mind, because there's no way in hell there's any such thing as angels," Dexter replied.


	8. Chapter 8

"I know it's a lot to take in," a Sam called as he came down the stairs, his voice easy, "but it's definitely real. Freaky? Yeah. But it's OK, Cas can get rid of the memory of it for you, if you like, once this is all over."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"No, really, he can knocked you out once. How did you think you got in here? Cas, show him—"

The man in the trench coat put his hand on Dexter's shoulder, and in flash of light, a rushing sensation, he realized, he was somewhere else—glaring sunlight and the sound of cars streaking by on the freeway, the clamor of people in a crowd—they were at the corner of a city block, beside a dumpster.

"What the f—"

Another flash, the same rush, and he found himself back in the musty room with the other two men.

"What the hell was that?!" He sputtered as the trench-coated man shoved him back into the chair.

"He teleported you. He could have shown you his true form, but then your eyes would've sizzled out of your head."

"It is true, most people except a special few cannot withstand the power of my true visage," Cas replied matter-of-factly.

"Your what? Y'know what, I don't want to know. Shit! I've really lost it this time." Dexter snapped.

"Unfortunately, for you, you're not. This shit is for real. But, whatever. You have a choice to make. Either you take the cure, or you die." Dean explained, his face grim.

"What cure?" Dexter groaned.

"You're turning into a vampire."

"No, you're—" Dexter began.

"Yes. Yes you are. And if we don't stop you, you will. You would go out and kill some poor dweeb for his blood, and turn permanently. And you'd live indefinitely on the blood of the people you slaughtered. Unless someone like us stopped you." Dean explained.

"You're shitting me."

"No, we're not. Show him, Sammy."

Sam moved a tarp on the other side of the room, lifting it to reveal a blood-stained body. With rising apprehension, Dexter realized it was missing its head. Sam picked up a cardboard box beside it, carrying it over to him.

"Augh, you sick bastards," He spat the words, dripping derision that he hoped covered the morbid fascination.

Sam tilted it downwards so he could see into it that it contained a human head.

He wrinkled his nose in feigned disgust as the other brother reached in, lifting the top lip—pressing on the gum above the front teeth—

A long, white tooth-like protrusion shot out from where he pressed. Dexter flinched.

"Fuck! What the hell is that?" He asked, now truly shaken.

"Buddy, that's a vampire's fang." Dean said.

"Why'd you cut its head off? To keep it or some shit?"

"It's the only way to kill them, brainiac," Dean said.

"We normally burn them after but we were kinda busy looking for you." Sam explained.

"So…if I don't do whatever this cure thing is, that's gonna be me."

"Yeah. Basically. Coz we sure as hell aren't letting you go kill people." Dean muttered.

Heh. Little late for that, he thought smirking.

"What part of this is funny to you?" Sam cut in.

"Nothing, except, you're talking about keeping me from killing people, when you have a head in a box, right there."

"Yeah, well, nobody's saying this is simple. But it's real. And real sucks but it keeps people alive. You're damn well gonna take it." Dean explained.

"Fine! I'll take the fucking cure. What do I have to do? Is it that bad, anyway?"

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, hell yeah, it's that bad and then some. You're gonna be sick for days, man. But that's kinda beside the point. Either you drink it, or we end you, then and there."

"I said I would, alright! Let's just get this over with." He shouted, shaking inside, the slow throbbing of his insides building until it felt like he would explode.

"Well," Sam said, "I have it ready, if you are."

He produced a can with frothy dark mixture in it, which he gave to Dean, who it held in front of Dexter.

"Ready?" He asked, looking at Cas, who grabbed Dexter's shoulders to restrain him, grunting, "Yeah."

"Alright, let's do this."

Dexter took a breath in trying not to gag at the smell as Dean raised the concoction to his lips.

He shut his mouth tightly, his jaw tense, turning his head to the side.

It smelled repugnant, of the very essence of death, but not in the adrenaline-laced way he was accustomed. Death like utmost darkness, a stench of rotten flesh and something indescribably evil...perhaps this was how normal people experienced it, he wondered absently.

"We're waiting," Dean said.

"I can't," he replied. "I...I need to do this for myself."

"Oh, really," Dean quipped. "Now, let's get this straight, you want to do this on your time? Because we don't have your time. You don't have your time. There is no you anymore. It's just the last little speck of you left in the middle of a vampire. So unless you drink this now, as of yesterday, we're ending this before-"

"I think what he means, Dean," Sam interrupted, "Is maybe he needs to feed it to himself. On his terms. I mean...he kind of has a point. I'm not sure if the magic isn't altered if we force him to take it."

Dexter looked up, making eye contact with Sam, who looked away, toward Dean. "Now I'm not saying let him have all night. We can't afford that. But...maybe if he does this himself, we can just get it over with. And I mean, it's not like he can do anything before one of us could stop him."

"Fine!" Dean grunted, nodding to Cas, who released his shoulders, going to work untying his hands.

Dean handed the cure to Sam, and picked up a large machete from a workbench behind them, moving to stand beside Dexter. "You try anything and you're dead, you understand?" He hissed in his ear.

Dexter wrinkled his nose, scowling in response. The angel, or whatever he was behind him, finished freeing his hands-he felt them come loose, and with a growing, irrational fury, he sprang forward suddenly, knocking the cure from Sam's hands as he did so-

Castiel, Sam and Dean all reacted at once. Dean started to swing for him, but saw Castiel already had it under control.

"You should have thought better of that," the angel muttered, his hand pressed to the back of Dexter's head, sending violent waves of energy coursing through his body. His eyes glowed burning red like embers from the inside of his head.

Dexter shook in Castiel's grasp for several moments, panting, his expression frozen with his face distorted at the height of a scream of agony.

"What are you doing to him?" Sam asked quietly.

"Persuading him," Cas replied, scowling as he sent another jolt of energy through him, this time letting go so that he crumpled, falling flat on his face to the floor.

"Uh, Cas," Sam began cautiously. "You realize, he spilled all of it?"

"Oh. So...I see... Dean, do you want me to take care of things?"

He shook his head grimly.

"Oh, you stupid fucker," Dean growled, slowly raising his machete, "You had a chance. You fucking blew it."

"Wait," Sam said, prompting Dean to pause. "Now, I know this is not what you want to hear, but...maybe he deserves another chance."

"Are you fucking out of your mind?" Dean cut in. "He tried to feed on you, Sammy!"

"I know, but...we have to kill so many. Isn't it worth trying," he raised his hand as if to stop Dean's protests premptively, "If it might work? He isn't like you or me, Dean. He didn't even know any of this crap existed until last night! He still doesn't believe it. He ought to at least get a chance. I'll do all of it. I'll make more of the cure, and get in him whether he likes it or not. And if anything goes wrong, I'll take his head off myself."

"Fine." Dean growled, "But this is on you. If you need help burning the bodies, call me. Otherwise, I'm out."


	9. Chapter 9

Sam sighed, turning to Castiel. "Can you help me get the ingredients? I'm not sure there's enough time to do it by hand."

The angel nodded. Sam went to the workbench across the room, scribbling a list on a sheet of notebookpaper.

"OK, this is it. Think you can get it?"

"Of course." Cas disappeared with the list in hand, reappearing only momentarily with the necessary items in hand, which he placed on the workbench.

"Thanks," Sam said, smiling. "For now, though, let's get him tied up while I work."

Sam and Castiel heaved him into the chair again, this time securing Dexter's arms and legs carefully with the cuffs attached.

"Well, that should hold him. It held the full on vampire earlier," Sam said as he turned toward the ingredients.

He muttered to himself as he began mixing them, spilling and pouring and measuring amounts to put in the can he was using to hold the finished product.

When he was done, it came out a disgusting dark red, like old blood.

"Alright," he said, sitting back. "Let's hope this does it."

"Yes," Castiel agreed, stepping aside as Sam stood, approaching Dexter where he sat, strapped into the chair.

"OK," Sam said, looking from the can that held the cure at Dexter and back again. "We're going to need something to get this in his mouth. Like a funnel…. Watch him while I look for one," he said, moving toward the cabinets, where he rifled through a few boxes before shaking his head in disgust.

"No luck?" Castiel asked.

"No. I'm going to check upstairs. We can't afford to spill it this time."

He headed up the steps to the main room.

"Hey," he called to Dean, who nodded from where he sat, leaning against the wall, cleaning a shotgun.

"Do we have some sort of funnel or something?" He asked.

"Should be somewhere with the Borax solution mix." Dean replied. "What for, though?"

"Long story," Sam muttered, going to the shelves to look for what he needed.

After a few moments' search, he found what he was looking for. With a large funnel in hand, he headed back toward the door down the stairs.

He paused as he opened the door, hearing voices from the room below.

"Wh—" the man in the chair groaned.

"Oh, great, you're waking up," Cas grumbled to himself.

"Ah…shit. Shit, shit, shit!" Dexter shouted.

"What?" Sam asked, his voice confrontational.

"Well, for one, I just woke up and somehow I'm still here, with you freaks," the disgruntled almost-vampire spat.

"And? Believe it or not, I'm doing you a favor. If it was up to my brother, you'd already be dead now. So shut up and try to cooperate." Sam growled.

"Oh, that's just fantastic," Dexter snarked.

"Cas," Sam prompted, nodding to the angel, who reached for Dexter.

He momentarily struggled, trying to move away, but the straps that held every inch of his body, including one around his head, prevented any meaningful resistance. The angel quickly dispatched him to unconsciousness.

"There," Cas said.

"Thanks," Sam replied, "Now at least we don't have to listen to him griping."

Cas nodded.

"Did you find what you needed?"

"Yeah," he said, holding up the funnel. "So….you put it in his mouth, I guess, and I'll pour."

"Sounds good to me," The angel assented, doing as he was instructed.

Sam made a face as he poured the putrid-looking liquid, pausing after a moment so that it didn't run out of Dexter's mouth.

"I guess we need him to swallow," he said. "How about tilting his head back some—" he paused as Cas did so, before continuing, "Yeah, like that."

"Alright, that does it. All we can do now is wait," Sam sighed, moving to sit on the bottom step.

"Thanks for helping me. I mean, yknow. If this actually works, we'll have saved his life."

Castiel nodded, going back up the stairs. "I'm going to go talk to Dean."

Sam sat quietly for a few minutes, waiting, for what he wasn't entirely sure.

Then there was a loud gagging noise-Dexter's eyes flew open. He began coughing violently.

Sam was on his feet immediately, and undid the head strap just in time to step back before Dexter vomited.

"Oh, god," he moaned, hacking violently. With slight alarm, Sam noticed his complexion was ashen, almost green.

"Yeah, worst's over," he said, nodding. "Just try to go to sleep for now."

Dexter didn't reply, gazing at the floor as he gagged, appearing to put all his effort toward not throwing up again.

"Fuck yeah," he muttered, groaning as his eyes rolled back, his head sagging as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

After a few moments, Sam probed his wrist for a pulse.

He couldn't find one. Frowning, he tentatively reached toward his neck, poking about at the carotid. There, finally, he realized, there was one. Weak, but there.

He sighed, relieved to see the man was in fact alive.

"Alright then," he said to himself, turning away to go back upstairs to tell Dean.


	10. Chapter 10

The next thing Dexter knew, the world was spinning, in and out of a dark haze.

"Oh, God," he heard a hoarse voice struggle the words out, before absently realizing it was his own.

"Don't try to sit up," someone said. A familiar voice. Even through the denseness of whatever fog he inhabited, he could feel the adrenaline begin to sing in his veins.

"Wh.." He tried to speak, but broke off, coughing. A deluge of agony descended on him now as a piercing light pried its ways past his eyelids, searing into his very brain.

He screamed, feeling his body, which he hadn't been entirely aware of as yet through the depths of the edge of his mental twilight, curling in on itself in the fetal position of someone in abject agony.

Footsteps, descended, echoing in his skull like mines detonating inside his brain cavity.

"Shit," another voice said. Dean… Winchester, Dexter realized, as the pain began to ebb, allowing him the mental faculties to begin trying to put a name to it…Shit, the murderers…The….whatever the hell they are….

"He's really ate up, isn't he?" Dean continued.

"Yeah," the first voice said. Sam. That's Sam, he thought. "But y'know, it means it's got to be working. And….if he comes out of it, I think it was worth it."

"Sammy," Dean said, sounding exasperated. "Look. You can be all emo over this as much as you want, but he tried to _kill _you. Would have, maybe us both, if it wasn't for Cas."

"Yeah. I know. Just…relax a little. That's over with now. And…we might have saved him." Sam continued.

"Hey," Sam said, his voice easier. Something touched Dexter on the shoulder, sending waves of pain through his body. He scrambled onto his side, the ensuing agony stealing his breath as he tried helplessly to get away from the reach of the noxious stimuli.

"Man, sorry about that. Look, I dunno if you're awake enough for this to make any sense, but you're coming through the worst of it now. And I'm pretty sure it feels like hell, but when you're able to wake up, we'll talk. Just…rest for now. Everything's OK." Sam said.

Dexter groaned, the exhaustion at the mere edge of consciousness where he hovered overtaking him.

Everything was again black, silent, heavy.

When he next awoke, he became aware of the warmth of meager light that blazed its way past his closed eyelids. He groaned, breathing in deeply. He moved his head, which caused the same spinning, pounding—he moved his arm to toward his head as if clutching it would stop the spinning-only to feel the shirk of metal about his wrist.

Again? He wondered, his gut sinking.

He felt about himself a bit, kicking his legs and groping with his arms, for the light was too intense to begin trying to open his eyes.

A bed. It felt like a bed. An uncomfortable, hard bed….he shook himself a bit, cringing at the pain it sent coursing through his head, hearing a creaking, rattling. A….cot? He tried moving his other hand, which he found was free, to cover his eyes. This shielded them from the brightness.

He sighed, daring to try to open his eyes. His hand blotted out enough of the light that it was bearable, although not pleasant. Gradually, he allowed more light in past his fingers, until he could tolerate removing it to look around.

His jolted at the realization. He was no longer in the basement, nor in the squat cinder-block building. No, he was on an old army cot somewhere in a large, concrete walled room with strange markings on the floor, a floodlamp sending the blazing brightness onto him. In the corner near the lamp, he spotted a camera.

There was a door on the far side of the room from him, enormous, and heavy. Going by its appearance, he realized, even if he could sit up, which he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to try at the moment, and get his hand free—he still didn't think he could possibly move it without finding a way into the electronics system.

Cutting down to his present options, he decided on the most direct course of action he had.

"Hey," he said hoarsely, "You depraved freaks. I know you can hear me. Why don't you go ahead and come out? I know you're there."

His voice was thin, rasping, as he spat the words derisively to the camera.

He let himself sink back into the uncomfortable cot, the tension draining him. It's fucking useless, he thought. I'm stuck here, now…and like hell they're gonna come. Or if they do-

His train of thought was interrupted by a rumbling sound. He looked over toward the far wall. The door…was opening. As it creaked open slowly, he could see the silhouette of someone—shit, he thought, realizing again who it was. Of course.

It was _them_.

"Looks like somebody's awake," Dean said, stepping through the door.

"Yeah," Sam said, following him in.

Dexter just stared, slack-jawed, as they moved toward him.

"Alright, down to business," Dean said.

Sam sighed, moving to the head of the cot, readying a machete that he had in his hand.

As Dean neared where Dexter lay, he rolled up his sleeves. He pulled something from his belt—a knife, Dexter realized, bracing for what might come.

Dean brandished it for a moment, grimacing as he pressed it to his own arm.

He pulled it away, letting blood slide down the blade, dripping a bit onto the blanket that covered Dexter.

Dexter eyed the spot as it soaked in, turning the drab olive of the cot a dark, muddy black.

The two stared at him for a while, expectant, the machete hovering in the air inches above his head.

"What the hell is that supposed to be?" Dexter finally broke the silence.

"That," Dean said, putting his knife away, "Is you, getting to keep your head."

"What…? Y'know what, I am done trying to figure out your insanity, " Dexter snarked, finally daring to let himself breathe again.

"Think what you want. I'm done with you. Sam, let's get him up, get him out—"

Dean reached for Dexter's wrist, which made him flinch.

"Chill, dude," he said, unlocking the handcuffs. "You're not vamp anymore, so you're not our problem."

"Can you sit up?" Sam asked, extending a hand toward Dexter. He eyed him distrustfully, instead grabbing a bar on the wall beside him where the handcuffs had been affixed to heave himself upright.

Vertigo stole his breath as he leaned against the wall, the world careening dangerously in his vision.

"What, you're—you' me go?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

His question earned a guffaw from Dean.

"No shit, Sherlock. You damn well earned it," Dean said.


	11. Chapter 11

Dexter didn't bother replying, favoring catching his breath over making a pithy comeback. They allowed him to rest sitting there for a few long, awkward moments, both brothers hovering tensely, scant inches away as if he were a risk to lunge at them again.

"Alright, time to get you up and out of here,"Dean said again, impatience showing through his voice.

"I really don't know about walking right now," Dexter cautioned them.

Dean grunted, making a face at Sam, who shrugged, offering, "Well, it's not a big deal, I mean, we got you down here we can get you back out, y'know?"

"As if you have to remind me of that," Dexter scoffed, continuing, "Wherever the hell here is."

"That's need to know, and you're not in the need to know category, OK?" Dean deadpanned.

"What is this, X-Files or something? Why would you even care if I knew where you were—_oh, yeah_, except that you're both insane, kidnapping serial killing freaks," Dexter snapped.

"Hey Sammy," Dean said jokingly. "Did you know that about us? I mean, get a load of this, I'd never heard anything about it!"

"Yeah, really," Sam replied, rolling his eyes. "Look, we get it. You're mad. We kidnapped you, or whatever you've decided to think. But, seriously, unless you want to spend the night down here, we ought to get moving. "

"Oh, fuck it," Dexter replied, crossing his arms over his chest, resorting in frustration to the ridiculously infantile strategy of simply refusing to move.

"No, really. Time to get up. We have other things to deal with that need this cell more than you," Dean prompted, reaching for Dexter's arm, motioning for Sam to do the same with a jerk of his head. The two together lifted Dexter to his feet, despite his lack of effort to help.

"Y'know, it would be nice if you'd at least try to walk," Sam insisted, at which point Dexter grunted some nonsense angrily under his breath, but complied, scowling.

Why would I want to help you, he wondered as he did so.

With Sam and Dean supporting him on each side, they slowly made their way across the room, toward the door, which had remained open. They emerged from the cell into a room with what appeared to be a very old security system, which Dexter supposed controlled the door.

As they walked, passing the security desk, his head began to pound, enough that he finally protested. "No, I need to sit down," he mumbled, his vision growing dim.

"Figures," Dean muttered as Dexter fell flaccid onto his shoulder, nearly pulling him over. "I mean, really. You couldn't manage more warning?!"

Sam chuckled at this, helping Dean by taking more of the weight off him. "Hey," he said suddenly. "Y'know, some of those chairs roll from the office area. I could go get one, it'd make getting him out of here a lot easier."

"Yeah, that sounds good," Dean huffed, "Except I am not staying here with him. He's too damn annoying. Don't go whining about me dropping him on you, either. I'll get the chair, and you can manage him on your own."

Sam nodded his assent, lowering Dexter to lie on the floor, as Dean stalked off to get one of the office chairs.

He returned a minute or two later, pushing the chair ahead of him, grumbling as it wobbled back and forth as he pushed it. "Damn thing," he snapped. "You'd think whoever makes them would, oh, I dunno, think to make them more rollable!"

Sam didn't bother replying, instead motioning for Dean to hurry it up and get closer.

He lifted Dexter into the chair, as Dean held it in place so it didn't roll away. "Alright, I think I got it from here," Sam said, taking the chair from Dean, who looked a little too satisfied to not be doing the grunt work. What's with him lately, Sam thought, it's like he taking special pains to point out that this guy is _my_ problem, not his. Only, doesn't he remember,_ he_ was the one who had insisted on this life to begin with, before all of Hell and Heaven came crashing in on us? This is part of life as hunters, Sam thought. And that includes taking care of the people we save. Even when they go out of their way to be annoying, like you, he thought.

As he pushed the chair through the long hallway, back toward the living quarters area, Dean having already left him behind to head back to the kitchen, he noticed Dexter stirring.

"Wh-" Dexter muttered.

"You passed out," Sam replied. "We put you in a rolling chair so we didn't have to carry you."

"So...god, I really don't get you guys. Or...any of this shit, really. I mean, was that for real? The...teleportation guy, the...vampire head...?" Dexter asked, shaking his head.

"Yeah, 'fraid so. And, the guy who teleported you, that was Cas. He's an angel. But before you start in on how bad it all was- first of all, I already know. I was _there_. But you're done with that now, and we're gonna observe you for a few more days. Make sure everything went right, although for now you seem relatively human again. Which is why we're trying letting you out." Sam explained as they arrived in the kitchen, where he saw Dean was standing over the stove, humming a scrap of a Metallica song as he turned on the burner.

"Whatcha making?" Sam asked.

"Oh, I thought I'd fry up a baloney sandwich. I'm hungry."

"Sounds like a heart attack on a plate," Sam replied. "I'm going to have a salad. And uh, what about you...y'know what, I don't think I ever got your name, actually."

"Dexter," he replied, suddenly wishing he'd said anything but. I told them my real name, he thought. I'm a fucking idiot...

"Well. Yeah, good to know your name," Sam said, "But really, are you hungry? You've been out for two days now."

"Sure," Dexter muttered, sighing. Half of him wanted to reject any food, reasoning: it could be laced with something, but he didn't have the resolve to fight that battle. I'm too weak, he thought. Can't even stand. Whatever the hell's really been going on, I feel like shit. so...I passed out, for two days, after...whatever the hell that stuff was they tried to give me to supposedly cure being a vampire and...these are the guys I was going to kill...and now they're cooking and offering me some... He felt as if his head was spinning again, only this time more from the mind-boggling impossibility of the recent turns of events.

"Alright," Dean grunted, reaching for bread and meat which was on the counter beside the stove.


	12. Chapter 12

"Yeah, so, I guess you can stay there, while I get you something," Sam said, pushing Dexter's chair up to the table. Dexter nodded wordlessly, letting himself sink back into the chair. As much as he wanted to retaliate, run, do something, _anything_, he knew wasn't as if he was in a position to do so, and right now.

Sam rattled about the cabinets for a moment, grabbing a glass from one, and a box from another. He went to the sink, filling the glass with water, and brought it and the box back to Dexter, who eyed him warily.

"It's just some crackers. I don't s'pose you'd want to try to eat too much since you're still pretty sick," Sam said, leaving them there on the table in front of Dexter.

Slowly picking up the glass, Dexter tasted the water, trying to see if it had anything in it. When he failed to notice anything off, he gulped it quickly, inhaling some of it in the process.

He coughed, sputtering for a moment, as his lungs forced the inhaled water back up.

"Hey, you alright?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, great," Dexter muttered in response. What the hell? He wondered.

"Seriously, you threaten to behead me, and then you're worried that I'm _choking_?" He blurted.

Dean laughed, leaning over the burner as he fried his sandwich. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Look, hard as it is for you to believe, we're not in this kill people," Sam scoffed. "We kill monsters. To _save_ people."

"Fine. Maybe—maybe, say you're not insane, and that shit was real," Dexter said, "But then why are you doing this, anyways? What the hell do you guys think you are? Vampire slayers?"

"We're the unlucky bastards whose job it is to save peoples' asses like you," Dean said, flipping his food in the pan with a spatula.

"Job?" Dexter asked between bites of crackers.

"We're hunters. It's sort of a family tradition." Sam said, smiling wistfully.

"Hunt what? Vampires?" He pressed, curiosity mounting.

"Vampires, ghosts, ghouls, demons, Leviathan, gods, killed a few annoying ass angels too. Monsters. The supernatural. Anything that gets out of hand. It's our job to end it." Dean replied, shrugging.

"So you're saying all that's real?" Dexter asked, his tone something between incredulity and intrigue.

"Yep. Every bit of that, and more," Sam replied, moving to the table with his food in hand.

"But what, now, you're just gonna let me go?"

"Well, yeah. You're just another human now, so, whatever. Go have fun. Forget this. You just survived some shit most people don't. I know. I've been there. It friggin' sucks." Dean explained, tossing his sandwich onto a plate.

"But you mean you—" They really don't want to kill me, he thought. It's almost like they have a Code of their own…

"What? Got turned? Yeah. But look, man. Tomorrow, in town, we'll give you the cash to catch a bus or whatever. Just go, get out of here. Forget about this. Forget us. Go,_ live,_ while you still have the chance." Dean exhorted, sitting down with his plate across from Dexter at the table.

"And do what?" His mind fell back to the empty search pages, bereft of anything that had ever marked his life. He was an unknown here. Perhaps unknown was good, but…it was so very empty. Empty, bitter, dead and old. No, there was nothing in the past. Nothing here, nothing anywhere…..


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks for the reviews, especially Lyle, LeeMarie, and Dean. Here's the next bit!

"Whatever the hell you want to! You're free, you have no friggin' idea, man, what _this_ life's like!" Dean sputtered, gesturing as he put down his sandwich on the table.

"I'd like to know." Dexter said nonchalantly as heart leapt, ever so slightly, at the glistening possibility that was forming in his mind.

"_Really_, _you don't_. It's blood, and guts, and death, and fighting for your life and the people you love _dying_, over and over again, and gore, and the evilest sons of bitches all out to get you. OK? So please, just go live your life." Dean shook his head as he spoke, expression twisted in something Dexter couldn't quite read—anger, guilt, pain? No, not one he realized. All of them.

"I…I don't have much of one. And I've _done_ blood, and guts, and death and people dying. I have no one left. So…why don't you teach me? If there's really that many of these freaks out there, then it sounds like you need all the help you can get." He said, slowly, then spoke faster, all of it coming out at once, for no reason he could tell. He almost wanted to slap himself in the face as he said it.

"You're joking," Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"No, no. Show me. Show me how to kill these, these _monsters_," he said, gesturing with an upturned hand, resolve he didn't even realize was there bleeding into his voice.

"You know, you're not the only who's ever asked. People see something on TV and go 'oh, cool I want to kick monster ass.' But reality's not pretty like that. This isn't Buffy. What makes you think you can do it? It ain't easy, OK?" Dean said gruffly, sending Sam a look as if he'd help. Sam merely shrugged, shaking his head in return.

"I was a mercenary," Dexter said, breaking the silence, his mind racing ahead, choosing the first profession he thought of that would serve to simultaneously showcase his skills and maintain a plausible cover story.

"So, yes, I know how to fight. And I can kill." He explained.

"But…can you do hand to hand combat?" Sam asked, interest showing in his face.

"Yeah," he chuckled. "I'll say. I'm a black belt in Jujitsu." He smiled at this.

"Can you shoot?" Dean cut in.

"Did plenty of that in Iraq," he lied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Research?" Sam said, his tone doubtful.

"Yeah." Well geeze, what would I have done for the Code, then? And how'd I manage as a blood-spatter expert? He thought, appreciating the irony of the inquest, yet at once hastening to bury the resultant satisfaction.

"Well, you might be one of the few to survive your first day as a hunter. But—"

"Dean, y'know, we do need the help," Sam cut in.

Dexter smiled, fighting to keep from appearing too eager.

"Fine. Sam, he's your project though, not mine. You have three days. And if you haven't shot yourself in the foot by then, I'll consider it." Dean asserted.

"Thanks," Dexter said, "You won't regret it." Again he fought to tamp back the glee that burbled through.

"Well, I guess that's a yes," Sam said, extending a hand to Dexter, who exchanged the handshake enthusiastically.

I can't believe it, he thought. For the first time since leaving Miami, he felt something like new. Something pulling, some sort of point to it all other than blindly fumbling, struggling to satisfy urges and survive. Something deeper.


	14. Chapter 14

Sorry for the delay in posting. My life's been going a little crazy lately, albeit in a good way. Thanks, as ever for reading, and for the reviews.

* * *

><p>As Dexter choked down the rest of his crackers, he sat back in the office chair, exhausted by the meager effort, feeling ready to pass out.<p>

"So, Dexter, you've got to be tired," Sam observed, standing as he finished his food, his chair scraping back from the table as he did so.

He put his dishes in the sink, and returned to the table, standing beside where Dexter sat.

"How about I show you where you can stay the night," he suggested, to which Dexter nodded, rolling his seat back as if to stand, but stopped as Sam protested.

"Yknow, it might be a good idea to not try that right now," Sam cautioned.

"What?" Dexter asked.

"I think he means he doesn't want to have to go to the trouble of scraping you up off the floor again,"Dean declared bluntly.

"Oh, yeah..." Dexter muttered, sitting back, letting Sam maneuver his chair away from the table.

They made their way out of the kitchen, Sam propelling him with long, even strides, through a room full of antique-looking office furniture and bookshelves. Green glass desk lamps gave it the air of an old library.

"What is this place?" Dexter asked.

"This? This is sort of the office, library, whatever you want to call it. Point is, these books are full of lore." Sam explained.

"Lore?" His tone betrayed his confusion.

"Yeah, folklore, makes great research material to find out about the monsters we deal with."

Dexter nodded, intrigue filling his mind. So many books….there were enough monster to fill this entire library, he wondered absently.

So very many deserving targets, so many potential kills…. A little pang of delight penetrated the dullness of his fatigue, his mouth twisting into a small smile.

"What?" Sam asked, noticing his change in expression.

"Oh, I just love to research is all. And…that's pretty damn amazing. There's that many monsters," Dexter replied, his usually sharp mind struggling to scrape together what he hoped was a remotely believable lie.

"Heh," Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I guess _amazing_ is one word for it. Or, yknow, sucky. There's a hell of a lot of crap out there that wants to kill us, that's for sure."

"Us?" Dexter asked, puzzlement tingeing his voice as he was too tired to try to puzzle it out himself, let alone hold back his emotion.

"Yeah, us, hunters. I mean…if you're going to be a hunter, they're going to be after you too. And you're going to have to get to them first." Sam clarified.

"Oh, I wouldn't be too worried about me," Dexter mumbled, suppressing a yawn.

"OK, then," Sam said, chuckling as they paused at a door, which Sam opened to reveal a bedroom. "This is it. Bed's made…hopefully not too much crap lying around in there. We haven't been in here in a while since K…" He trailed off momentarily, voice growing grim before continuing, "Well, anyways. Yell if you need anything. We're right up the hall."

Dexter grunted, "Thanks," standing feebly from the chair, he made his way over to the bed, leaning on the wall as he walked, where he lay down promptly.

"Well, see you in the morning." Dexter called.

Sam sighed, flipping off the lights.

He couldn't help the sense of dismalness that permeated it. The bitter knowledge, the guilt, the blank spots in his memory of what had happened, what a being occupying his body had done to the boy that had once slept in that room had seared themselves into his mind. The significance was that of what wasn't there. And he knew why. Even now, so many months later, with far more important matters at hand, it chilled him enough to make him hate walking by it. And he couldn't help hating himself for it, either.

He shook himself, trying to clear the rambling of guilty voices inside his head. Not now, he told himself. Maybe when there's time, he assuaged his conscience. But…probably not ever, he acknowledged the possibility vaguely, all the while trying to brush it aside.

He made his way back up the hall, through the office to the kitchen, where Dean sat, now drinking a beer.

"So," he called as Sam took a seat across from him. "You got Vamp Boy squared away?"

"Dexter," Sam mumbled, correcting him.

"Huh?" Dean grunted, making a face that said what he didn't verbalize, 'dude, would it kill you to lighten up?'

"His name's Dexter. And, yeah. I think so." He replied, this time louder, rolling his eyes. Dean was being so typical... so Dean, he decided.

"And you're really buying into all that make me a hunter crap?" Dean's tone now was mocking as he sat back, putting his feet up on the table.

"I dunno. I mean, he seems kind of out of it. If he still thinks like that in the morning, then...yeah, I guess. Other wise, though, it's probably just the cure talking..." Sam trailed off, shaking his head. "Look, I don't know about you, but I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

With that, he stood, his chair scooting back from the table as he did so, and began to make his way out of the kitchen.

"Eh," Dean muttered in reply, "Seeya."

Sam merely nodded, wordless, in reply as he continued up the hall toward his room.

…

The next thing Dexter was aware of was the overwhelming hunger that was burning its way through his insides. He sat bolt upright from where he was lying, eyes flying open, to see only darkness punctuated by strips of glow in the dark safety around the edges of the room. Where the hell am I, he wondered as the previous days came flooding back to him, giving him the distinct sensation of waking up to a real nightmare.

"Oh, shit" he groaned to himself. "This is for real..."

For real, he thought, the other facts of this strange world he'd so recently become immersed in returning to him.

Monsters…monsters are real, he realized all over again, a little surge of adrenaline pouring through him. And that means hundreds, thousands, of deserving targets….

He smiled to himself as he stood from the bed he'd been lying on, groping through darkness to the wall where he found the switch.

Looking down as light flooded his senses, he realized he still wore his boots, jeans, jacket. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to shower, get out of the days-old dirty clothing, which he was now aware were stained with sweat, blood and grime.

And wear what, though, he realized. He had nothing else with him…

Sighing, seeing nothing else to do, he opened the door, stepping out into the hall.

"Hello?" He called, voice echoing in the empty passageway. Shrugging, he made his way back up the corridoor toward the library, his movements weak and shaky from lack of food.

He paused, despite the gnawing hunger that propelled him to look at the strange many-pointed star symbol painted on the ceiling, glaring at it as if to try to figure out what it was.

"Oh, you're awake, and up," a voice said, startling him to look back across the room toward the kitchen, where he saw Sam.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I'm starving. But, what is that thing?" He motioned toward the ceiling

"That? It's a devil's trap," Sam replied.

"Devil? Like, honest to god, real life demons?" Dexter asked, his brow wrinkling in disbelief.

"Yeah. Real demons. There's a lot for you to learn about the monsters out there. But not right now. We're just fixing some breakfast. You can have some if you want." Sam gestured toward the kitchen. Dexter nodded eagerly, replying,"Hell yeah," as he continued toward the kitchen.

"Y'know," Dean cut in, expression devilish. If his tone had been any more teasing, he'd have to have been nearly singing 'I know something you don't know.'

"Know what?" Dexter asked, shaking his head.

"It's a real place. Not just some fairy tale bullshit."Dean grinned as he spoke, as if something was funny.

"Hell?" Dexter scoffed, not making no effort to hide his disbelief. What the fuck is with these guys, he wondered.

"Yeah. Hell. And so's heaven. And Purgatory. And…well who the fuck knows what else. There's other universes too. In fact…."Dean looked pointedly at Sam. "Think we should tell him?" He muttered in a low voice, although Dexter could still hear.

"Yeah, don't see why not," Sam replied, shrugging as he trailed off, breaking eggs into a bowl, which he then stirred bits of onion and ham into.

"Tell me what?" Dexter's voice shattered the lull in conversation, breaking up the quiet rhythm of the boys cooking.

"You're not from here." Sam answered, his words leaving Dexter almost as mystified as before.

"Here? Where is here? You never told me—" He protested, shaking his head. Couldn't they just tell it to him straight, he wondered, for once?

"Not where we are now in the bunker, moron. You aren't even from this universe," Dean announced caustically, turning away from the counter to watch his reaction with what appeared to be satisfaction.

"Wait, what?" Dexter muttered, his voice and face twisting with the incredulity and shock that wracked him.

"Universes, right?" Dean said, rolling his eyes with impatience. "It's like a bunch of cars in a parking lot. The cars are the universes, our universe is one, yours is another, and somehow, you found your way through a hole in yours to ours. Don't ask me how. It's all metaphysics and crap I don't pretend to understand, but. Yeah…"He trailed off, turning back to the stove as he allowed what he'd said to sink in, which clearly wasn't happening terribly fast, as Dexter was simply sitting, staring slack-jawed, expression blank.

"But….how would you know that? How…." Dexter sputtered, his gut sinking as he considered the possibility. But, it would fit, he thought, shrinking from the magnitude of the suggestion. It can't be. Heaven? Hell? Purgatory? Paralell universes? No, but, then again, he realized, with a pang of clarity, it wasn't as if impossible seemed to mean much lately. I did just turn back from a vampire, he realized. Maybe...just maybe, they're not shitting...


	15. Chapter 15

"So, how we know that," Sam came to his aid. "Is because Cas, the angel, who helped us cure you," He paused, looking to Dexter looking for a sign of comprehension, which he got in the form of a frown and nod,"Well, when he touched you, he could see into your soul. And he said you aren't from here. So….that's how we know."

"It….it might…god, that's why…."he bit off the end of his sentence, alarm bells ringing in his head as he realized just how close he was to spilling it.

"Might be what?" Sam asked.

"Nothing…"

"By the way, do you believe in God?" Dean asked.

"No."Dexter shrugged, making a face at him. Now what, he wondered.

"Well, good. Coz otherwise you might be mad to hear, God's been AWOL for quite a while around here."

"What?" He laughed. God, he wondered. Now there's a God?

"He ran off to leave humanity and the angels to deal with the Apocalypse."

"So there's not just vampires, demons, werewolves, angels, and, whatever other shit. There's also a God, who walked out on the world right before the end of times?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"Some God." Dexter muttered, shaking his head.

"Oh, yeah, but there's not just one god. There's also the pagan gods, Kahli, Thor, Veritas… Only they're not quite as powerful without all the worship and sacrifices. They have a taste for people these days, too, yknow, so if you see one, make sure to stick 'em real good," Dean mimed impaling a stake through someone's chest, "Right in the heart with your stake."

"Wow…that's a lot… This-this…is a little bit fucking much," Dexter muttered, rubbing his temples with his thumbs as he tried futilely to digest the onslaught of absurdities the elder Winchester was taking such obvious delight in revealing.

"Dean—" Sam nudged him with his elbow giving him a reproachful look.

"Oh, come on, Sammy. I'm just telling him like it is,"Dean shot back, tossing his head. "I mean, really. He wants in on a hunt? He ought to know what he's getting into, coz if he can't take this, then there's no way in hell he's gonna make it out there."

"Still, let's just have breakfast first. He's got to be starving ,he hasn't eaten in days, yknow?" Sam replied, shaking his head in annoyance at his brother.

"Fine," Dean grumbled sullenly, putting the bacon he'd been frying on a plate.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned back to the omlets he was making.

"Yeah, uh, OK, so…" Dexter cleared his throat. "All this cosmic shit aside… I'm…." he looked down at himself again, feeling distinctly even more disgusting as Dean handed him a plate with bacon on it.

"What, cat got your tongue?" Dean jibed, taking a seat across from him.

"No, uh, it's just I've been in these clothes for….god , three days now? I feel less human than I did when I was a vampire," he cracked, making what he hoped was a jovial smile.

"Oh," Sam said. "Yeah, sorry. I hadn't thought of that…"

"Mmhmm," Dexter replied absently as he stuffed bacon in his mouth with his hands, caving effortlessly, instinctually to the overwhelming desire to eat everything on the plate.

"Yeah, so, here's what you can do about that," Sam said as he brought the omletes to the table where he took a seat beside Dean.

"You finish eating, and we'll find you something clean to wear. And the showers are up the hall from the bedrooms…"

Dexter was too busy inhaling the omlete to really care anymore about his state of filth. The buttery egg flavor filled his mouth, the crunch of onion and tang of cheese adding perfection to the absolutely mouth-watering incredibleness that he was sucking down faster than he'd realized was possible.

"Whoah, slow down there," Sam cautioned, eyeing his already-empty plate with surprise. "There's a such thing as eating too fast, especially for somebody who's been starving for several days—"

Dexter realized with a pang, too little too late, that he was right. He could feel his face turning green, the burn of nausea in his stomach as he gagged, the muscles of his abdomen spasming.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, jumping up and heading for the bathroom.

Once he was out of earshot, Dean let out a burst of barely-suppressed laughter.

"Really, Sam? You think this guy's got what it takes to be a hunter? He can't even hold down breakfast."

"Y'know, there's a physiological reason behind not eating too much too fast, especially for someone in his state," Sam began.

"Blah blah, anatomy, physio-whatsit. I don't care. Point is, if he can't even eat his friggin' bacon what makes you think he's gonna make a hunter?" Dean stared no-nonsense at Sam, who just sighed, rolling his eyes as he ate more of his omlete.

A few minutes later, a considerably paler Dexter reappeared in the kitchen.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"So, tiger, decided the breakfast gremlins were too much for ya?" Dean qujpped.

"No, actually I think I'll be OK. It's just…your brother's right. My metabolism isn't ready for too much yet. Maybe…maybe some toast or….y'know what? Actually, milk," Dexter replied, his mind slowly creeping back through the archives of biological knowledge he'd stored up before everything had changed. Milk. The potassium helped avoid sickening a person who hadn't eaten with refeeding syndrome…. And he wasn't even quite at the threshold of risk for that, of five days not eating, yet, he realized. But…milk….it was a good idea anyways.

"Yeah, sure, we can do that," Sam replied. "Cabinet above the sink, there's glasses. Milk's in the fridge," he said.

"Thanks," Dexter nodded, grabbing the carton and an glass to pour a bit. He sighed, taking a seat with it. "God, I'm starving though," he muttered as he gingerly took a drink.

"You'll get there," Sam assured him.

Dexter nodded wordlessly as he swallowed.

"Well, this is all great, but what about all that crap about him being a hunter, huh?" Dean cut in.

"Give him a chance, dude," Sam frowned at Dean, shaking his head as he stood to take his plate to the sink.

"No, not really. You won't get another chance out there." He nodded, staring earnestly at Dexter. "You're lucky as hell you kept that head of yours and that we didn't salt and burn your body."

Dexter choked on the milk a little as he scoffed. Oh, if only they knew, he thought, suppressing the desire to smirk.

"Yeah, uh, I get it. I'm…lucky, if you can call it that. But…right now, I really just want to get cleaned up." He shook his head, trying to make an apologetic expression.

"Fine. Just saying…" Dean trailed off as he too walked to the sink to put away his dishes.

"Yeah, no, I get it," Sam said from where he stood, up to his elbows in the sink, cleaning up from breakfast. "Shower's up the hall, like I said before, and I'll find you something to wear if you can wait a second …."

Dexter nodded, happy to be making some sort of progress toward normality as he put his glass in the sink. He took a seat at the table as a wave of dizziness wracked him. Sam finished the dishes quickly, and left the sink for somewhere up the hall, standing as Sam returned momentarily with some jeans ad a teeshirt in hand.

"Probly won't fit too well, but I hope it'll do," he said.

"Thanks." Dexter replied, heading off toward the showers.

So far, so good, he mused as he stood under the hot jets of water, breathing the steam that fogged the tile walls. This time, unlike before as he'd been turning, he could feel the scald of heat in the water, groaning as he stretched his sore muscles. He was human, as he should be, he thought. Human, yes, vulnerable but getting stronger, he consoled himself. And...in a new universe. Monsters, monsters are real, he reminded himself, there's gods, demons, angels, monsters... And they're all in need of killing. He grinned to himself as he realized with unbridled glee, just how his luck had changed. I've found a place where monsters are real, he thought again. Monsters bigger than me...


	16. Chapter 16

Sorry about taking so long to update on this one! I've been super busy through the holidays with work, although I've been working on it some all along, only the past couple days have I had enough time to breathe and stitch together the sporadic scenes I'd worked out. Anyways, hope you enjoy! And, yes, there's more to come after this.

...

_Bang-bang-bang._

The rapid succession of explosions shook the air, ripping all other sound out of his ears as he pulled the trigger of the gun, feeling the shock of its recoil absorb into his arm and body; he regarded the targets coldly through its sites.

There was something good about firing a gun, release, maybe, he decided, even for all their impracticality in the art of secret murder. Too much splatter, too much noise, not his style. There was bravado, a definitive pride, in the noisily immature way guns announced a kill.

Dexter lowered the firearm, staring up the concrete chute of the range at the targets, deciding to let just a little satisfaction escape as he realized he hadn't missed a single shot. Swagger, he thought to himself, a little swagger would fit the situation. After all, he had done well; the bulletholes were all clustered neatly around the bullseye with a few straying out into the first ring. If they were people, or monsters, they'd all be dead or dying.

"Well," Sam said, clearing his throat as he and Dean assessed the damage to the targets down the range. "Not bad."

"Yeah, sure," Dean muttered grouchily.

Dexter smirked as he pulled out his earplugs. "Told you guys I know my way around a gun."

"There's more to it than just shooting, though," Dean said, suddenly all business.

"Yeah?" Dexter asked, handing Sam the gun as he reached to put it back on its rack.

"Yeah. Seriously. There's a hell of a lot of lore that you have to know, and a lot of fighting you better know how to survive, before you can even think about going on a hunt."

"OK, so what are you waiting for? Show me." Dexter grinned.

….

"Dude, I dunno how long you're planning on keeping him around, but this is getting kind of old." Dean griped as he leaned on the counter.

"What? He's barely been here three nights since he woke up. I think you can cut the guy a little slack," Sam replied,

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, shaking his head. "Still, there's just something about this that doesn't sit right with me."

"Doesn't sit right with you? What, like all that bad diner food from the past thirty years or so? You don't think it's all finally coming back to haunt you?" Sam jibed.

"Aw, come on, man," Dean grumbled, rolling his eyes, faking insult, but letting his grin tell his real reaction. "Really though, I mean…why in the hell would anybody want this life?" His face fell as he spoke, staring down into his beer. "Only crazy people would do this day in day out, let alone start looking for how to get into it. And here he is, begging us to show him. I mean, what's up with that?"

"Well," Sam shrugged. "He's had a whole lot happen to him the last few days. Maybe…maybe like us, like dad, seeing it made him want to fight back."

"OK, your guess is as good as mine on that," Dean muttered. "But really, he's been wearing _my_ clothes. He has got to get some of his own—"

"How?" Sam cut in, laughing. "He doesn't have a car, remember? Or money. Must've lost it or left it back in Oregon. We have to give him a ride into town to get something."

"Oh….yeah…." Dean said absently, making a face. "Fine, I'm going into town first thing in the morning. I guess he could come with me…"

"Sounds good to me," Sam nodded. "Heck, you could ask him some of all this 'why do you want to be a hunter stuff,' if you have to know."

"Yeah, alright," Dean muttered. "First thing, then…"

..

The next day, Dexter awoke early, stretching as he worked some of the aches out of his muscles, appreciating the burn of hunger that sat deep in his core. He'd been able to eat better the past few days, first cereal, then egg, without fear of vomiting. This morning, judging by the intensity of his hunger, which had only grown over the past couple days of cautious eating, he felt as if he could devour the whole table spread.

He showered and threw on some clothes that Dean had loaned him before heading out down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Dean stood, talking to Sam by the sink.

They paused in their conversation as Dexter approached.

"Yeah, so, we got to thinking," Sam began, but was interrupted by his brother.

"It's time you got something to wear of your own," Dean cut in.

"Yeah, agreed," Dexter replied. "So, what, are we finally leaving this hole in the ground?"

"Yeah, we are. But, really, hole in the ground? Don't knock it. For me, this is home, man."

"Oh. Ok…" Dexter trailed off, uncertain what to say.

"Yeah, so, you coming with? I'm thinking I'll pick up breakfast at the diner in town." Dean shrugged, keys to the Impala jangling in his hand.

"Yeah, right behind you."

They made their way up the stairs out of the bunker, Dexter following behind Dean.

Outside, upon unlocking the Impala, Dean swung into the driver's seat, Dexter taking shotgun.

Dexter watched out the window as the engine roared to life, taking in the drab shapes of the abandoned buildings beside the bunker.

"So…that's really home for you, huh?" Dexter asked as they sped away down the street.

"Yeah. Home, or close as I've had since forever, really." Dean replied. "So, uh, what about you? You have somewhere that was home?"

"Used to, Miami. But that was before my wife died, and then my sister…" he trailed off, berating himself silently for letting so much truth slip. Then he realized over again; he didn't exist here. There was no Dexter Morgan here, wherever here was, whatever it was that distinguished this reality from his, besides his own knowledge of it.

"That's rough," Dean replied.

"Yeah…" Dexter muttered, as much to himself as to Dean.

"So, uh, what makes you want to hunt, huh?" Dean said after a few moments of silence.

"I dunno. I mean, I don't exactly have much else I can do, what with the whole welcome to a new universe deal. To behonest, since…" he paused for a moment getting his thoughts straight, planning the lies out piece by piece. "Since Iraq, and then my wife and sister…I've just sort of…drifted around. And, hell, maybe getting here however that happened was a good thing. I know how to kill stuff, and there's stuff that needs killing, so….I dunno. Save some lives, right, since these monsters almost killed me? So, uh, what about you, how'd you get into all this?" Dexter asked slowly, trying to move away from his constructed lies. People like to talk about themselves, he remembered his Harry saying once. Ask them something, it will take the pressure off of you. So he did.

"If you really wanna know," Dean said, "A demon killed our mother when I was four. We grew up on the road in this car, traveling while dad fought things, trying to find that damn demon. We've been doing this ever since." Dean replied, shrugging as he tried to cram all his life into something that might begin to make sense to the man in the passenger's seat. "Better or worse, it's the only life we've really had."

"Yeah, so, these monsters," Dexter said, changing the subject as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as if it would help him escape from the emotion that was clearly permeating the conversation, none of which he actually felt like dealing with. Emotion got messy, he knew. Especially when lying. No, best move on…

"What about em?"

"The other day you were going on about different kinds," Dexter said. "But really, how many are there?"

"How many? God, what do I look like, a fucking dictionary? Short answer is, there's more than we could possibly know, and more than you'd ever be able to kill. Ever. It's one reason people in this line of work don't tend to live long happy lives. There's too much shit out there trying to kill you." Dean shook his head grimly.

"But if there's so many, how do you fight them?"

"We research our asses off, for one," Dean replied. "And there's also some stuff that fixes things a little easier. There's several main types of monsters we deal with. Ghosts—"

"There's ghosts too, really?" Dexter asked.

"Yeah, trust me, I'm not making that up. If you last long enough hanging around here, you'll probly meet some too. Anyways ghosts are souls of dead people that hung around and a lot of em start going batshit pretty fast, and become vengeful spirits. Lines or circles of salt hold them back, and iron hurts them, but the only permanent fix is to salt and burn the body." Dean explained.

Salt and burn, he thought. Suddenly the accusations of grave desecration against the brothers made sense…

"OK, so salt's what, a multitool?" Dexter asked.

"Yeah. Pretty much. Helps with demons too, although for them, for a real fix, you have to exorcize or gank them—but regular weapons won't work. Have to have an angel blade for that."

"And demons are…what exactly?"

"They're kinda like ghosts, only on steroids. Souls that went to hell and got so fucked up they serve Hell now. Or, at least, some of em do. Nasty, real nasty, they possess meatsuits to walk around and look like anybody else, except their eyes. Their eyes are black most of the time, although.." Dean's mind flashed to Azazel, and Lilith, recalling her vacant white stare as the hellhound descended on him, ripping him apart before the 40 years of hell, and Azazel's angry yellow eyes. "Some of em are red or…whatever else. Point is if its eyes turn colors, get ready to fight or run, or both. Or…if their eyes glow, they're an angel. And that can be either good or bad news. If it's Cas, you're OK unless you've gotten on his bad side…" Dean winced at the memory of the last time he'd really pissed the angel off. Yeah, best avoid that if you don't want to be beaten within an inch of your life… "If it's anybody else, you better get ready to make some Enochian sigils to repel them. Or stab em with an angel blade. But Enochian sigils is better, because some of em, the Archangels, would happily pave the ground with your insides using their powers to explode you sooner than let you get within stabbing distance."

"Wh..what?" Dexter mumbled.

"Nevermind…Angels. That's pretty much a topic in itself. Point is, funny eyes are bad news. Run, or use magic to repel em, or stab em, or exorcize, depending on how it's going down."

"You said…there's demons that can be exorcized or killed with an angel blade. And…angels too? How's that work?" Dexter asked.

"Yeah, so, exorcisms, you have to trap them in place with either a binding sigil or in a devil's trap, and perform the ritual, where you basically speak Latin in the right way and boom off they go back to Hell, black smoke comes pouring out their mouths. That's how demons look when they don't have meatsuits. Now, killing demons, or angels, for that matter, takes an angel blade. They're the swords angels carry. Not too easy to come by, but there's plenty of em."

"Oh, uh, OK…" Dexter trailed off. "And uh, that…Enocha thing?"

"Enochian. Sigils, there's these symbols you can draw in Enochian. That's the uh, sorta Angel language."

"Oh…and…you said something about…magic?"

"Yeah. Magic's real too. Spells, you can summon demons and angels, banish them with sigils, and all sortsa other stuff."

"O….ok. What was that stuff, that cure thing? Is that…magic?"

"Yeah. It's magic too. Very specific stuff, the only way to prevent a person bled into by a vampire from turning."

"It was pretty shitty," Dexter laughed.

"Yeah, I know." Dean replied. "I took it once too."

"You…you did?"

"Yeah. I got turned a few years back and, well, it's a long story. But I know how shitty it is, believe me you. I came really close to feeding, and I knew what was happening to me. I went to say goodbye to the people I loved. I thought that was it for me, then Sam explained he had the cure…" Dean trailed off, staring stiffly at the road as he drove, a grimace forming on his face at the memory.

"Anyways, I barely managed to hold off, so, I have to ask, man, what the hell were you doing while you were gone?" Dean redirected the conversation now, and where it headed stuck into Dexter like a jab to the throat.

"I, uh, well first I just ran. Got back to my motel, and uh, started feeling really weird…" Dexter said, slowly at first so as to buy time to collect his thoughts. This, this has to be good… he thought. Convincing…

"And then what?" Dean asked as he paused for a moment, clearing his throat.

"I don't really remember, to be honest," Dexter said.

"Really?" Dean pressed. "I remember everything from when I turned. God, wish I didn't. It was pretty fucking awful."

"Yeah, no, there was just like, this….this need. I could hear…" the feeling of it washed over him again, remembering the particular flavor of that desire for blood. "I could hear everything, light was so bright, noises were way too loud, and I could hear peoples heartbeats, their blood in their arteries." He chanced a look straight at Dean, trying to read his expression, which unfortunately, was rather blank. No, he decided. I have to cinch this… "I wanted blood, so bad, I didn't know what I was doing."

"Yeah, but then, why come back to look for us at the safehouse?"

"You mean, besides being insane? I dunno. I don't really take that well to kidnapping, though." He played it off with what he hoped was cool nonchalance.

"Yeah, but why the hell did you have that syringe?"

"I work…_worked_… trapping animals. I carry backup tranquilizer." Dexter lied quickly although he realized all at once that it didn't fit his story, at all.

"Trapping animals?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, but, when you ran, why'd you come back here with that? Why didn't you just call the cops if you were freaked?" Dean shot the question, looking glancing across the seat at him with narrowed eyes. Was the look suspicion, or just Dean squinting from the sun? Dexter wondered.

"I settle my own scores," Dexter asserted with what he hoped was swagger. Swagger, and such an attitude, he reasoned, would fit the persona he was building. And…it wasn't too far from the truth. He had settled his own scores in the past, he thought, flashing back in his mind's eye to the various killers he'd had on his table, including those who had the audacity to hurt his family. Yeah, this lie was a good one.

Dean smirked. "You're not the only one."

Dexter laughed awkwardly at this, crossing his arms over his chest before changing the subject again. "Yeah, so, uh, how soon til we get to the store?"

"We'll be in town in another mile or so. Pick up something to eat, then get you your own damn clothes." Dean laughed.

"Yeah, I won't mind that," Dexter shrugged, inspecting Dean's face for any signs of doubt or concern. If he had any, Dexter decided, he hid them well.


	17. Chapter 17

Thanks for all the reviews, guys! You keep me writing. Here's the next bit, as promised.

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><p>Back in the bunker, Dexter sat at the table across from the brothers, eating an omelet in the takeout plate from the diner. The egg melted in his mouth as he chewed, finally able to savor food without the nausea that seemed to be leftover from the cure ruining his meal.<p>

The crisp fabric of his new jeans and shirt felt slightly strange compared to the well-worn work clothing he'd been wearing, both what had been loaned to him, and his own that he'd worn in the lumber camp for the past several months.

"So, uh, what do you guys spend your time, doing, anyways?" Dexter spoke up trying to ease the tense silence that gave him the odd feeling that something just wasn't quite right.

"Oh. Yeah, well there's shittons of research," Dean spoke up.

"Yeah but like, how do you make a living?" Dexter asked, awkwardly shrugging.

"Don't worry about that right now," Sam smiled, shaking his head as if to dispel the notion.

Dexter didn't reply, but merely made a confused face.

"Sammy," Dean laughed, putting down his orange juice. "What the hell? He already knows we kill shit. What more can we possibly have to hide?"

This earned an eye roll from Sam as he dug into his scrambled eggs, nodding assent for his brother to disclose their fundraising activities.

He turned back to Dexter, saying, "I mean, sure, Sam might not be proud of it, but we do a little hustling poole here, some credit fraud there…but that's not for you to be concerned with now. Hell I'll be amazed if you make it the rest of the week, let alone on a real hunt. You got plenty of time, man, before you worry about funding your own hunts. Odds are you won't live that long, anyways."

"Oh, uh, ok," Dexter muttered, shrugging. Credit fraud? Some conversation, he decided. Small talk and seeming normal was harder around these guys than it was most people. Normal people don't go looking to poke holes in stories, he thought. Then again, nothing here's normal. He suppressed a smirk as he thought that again.

They continued eating in start-and-stop silence, the conversation meandering sideways every now and again.

"You know, you were going on the other day about hwo you have what, a blackbelt in jujitsu or something. If you really want to do this, you're going to have to learn to fight all sortsa shit that doesn't play fair. And you said you were in Iraq for a while. I don't spose you actually did any man to man fighting there, yeah?"

"No," Dexter shook his head, the answer coming naturally as it would enable the conservation of detail in his cover story. Less detail on something eh didn't know so much about, the fewer chances to back himself into a hole, the fewer chances to get found out. "No combat. I was in intelligence, although I did help train some of our recruits at the firm."

"You trained? So, what, you're saying you got in practice that way?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, of sorts," Dexter returned, his mind flashing to the adrenaline-filled clarity of a kill…

"What, nostalgia or something man?" Dean asked, as apparently his fond memories had bled over into his expression.

"Oh, uh, yeah," Dexter said quickly, "Lots of good guys to go through there."

"Yeah, about that," Sam said. "Are you sure you're happy here?"

"Is it like I have another option?" Dexter asked, frowning over his now empty takeout plate.

"Oh, you're thinking Cas could help, aren't ya?" Dean looked at Sam as he spoke.

"Yeah, see, Castiel, the Angel you met who helped us get you cured, well, he can transport people between universes, sometimes, anyways." Sam said.

"Oh. You mean, I could…go back?" Dexter asked skeptically.

"Dunno, man," Dean answsered before Sam could get to it. "Cas and the other Angels have transported us between universes a couple times," he tilted his head as he spoke like he was considering something.

"Yeah, different universes, alright," Sam said. "We wound up in one where everybody thought we were actors. Playing ourselves."

"You…you what?" Dexter shook his head trying to wrap his mind around what they were saying.

"Point is," Dean said, "There's different universes, and angels can take you between them. Sometimes, though. What do you think, Sammy, think Cas could do that again?"

"No, no, remember," Sam shook his head as he spoke. "He had the help of the Archangels then. I really don't know, although….we could ask him…."

"Hey, Cas—" Dean said aloud, taking Dexter by surprise.

"Who the hell's he talking to?" Dexter asked, making a face of puzzlement.

"He's calling Cas," Sam explained, sitting back in his seat after he stacked his empty breakfast dishes on each other. "Watch."

"Castiel! You got your ears on, man? We got a question."

Dexter watched, his jaw gaping open stupidly as a small burst of wind, like from a fan, and the sound of flapping, of wings, shook the air of the room.

There, in front of the sink, now stood a man in a trench coat. Aside from his sudden appearance, the most unusual aspect of his façade was his eyes. They were ancient, profoundly sad, yet terribly knowing. Dexter realized with a degree of transfixation, that they seemed as if they could see inside him. He shivered at this absurdity. Be reasonable, he scolded himself. Nobody can look right through you….

"What is it, Dean?" Castiel asked.

"Well, we've got a question from this guy," Dean explained.

"Yes?" Castiel nodded.

"This is Dexter—" Sam indicated him with a tilt of his head.

"Yes, I didn't get to meet you properly last time, since you were busy trying to kill Sam," Castiel said shrewdly.

"Yeah, uh, about that," Dexter said, contorting his face in the best approximation of apology that he could muster. "I wasn't in control then and I'd like to apologize for any problems I caused."

"Really? Coz it's only the past day or so you seem to believe us when we say we're not trying to kill you still," Dean scoffed.

"Yeah, uh, anyways—" Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, giving Dean a look. "You know how you said he wasn't from this universe? Well, do you think there's any possibility you could get him back to his own?"

"I don't know. Let me see," Castiel replied, tilting his head as he thought.

He stepped towards Dexter, who couldn't help but reflexively shrink away back towards his seat a little.

Noticing his apparent unease, Cas paused, "To determine this, I need to read your soul."

"My…soul? You mean…nevermind. Just…yeah, go ahead." Dexter flinched a little as the Angel approached, hands outstretched.

He put one to his forehead, the other behind his shoulders, frowning intensely as he focused on what lay inside Dexter.

His eyes shone with a glowing blue-white light for a moment before he released Dexter, who stumbled backwards just a bit into his chair.

"So, what's the verdict?" Sam asked expectantly from where he sat.

"As I said before, he's definitely from another universe. I'm afraid there's no way I could get him back without significant assistance. And…" he trailed off, "I don't think that would be logistically feasible at this point."

"Yeah, no, didn't expect so," Dean shrugged.

"Wh—what?" Dexter asked, squeezing his eyes open and shut a few times as he tried to shake off the insane lightheadedness the angel's actions had brought on to him.

"Yeah, so," Sam called, standing to go clap him on the shoulder, which roused him from his daze, "Sorry to say, it looks like you can't get back home."

"Oh…" Dexter nodded, feigning dejection, or at least impassivity, he hoped, by maintaining an expressionless look.

"Yeah, so uh, you'd been asking about all the books and everything, yknow? Want to go check out the library?" Sam urged, his voice sympathetic.

Dexter grunted in response, shrugging.

"C'mon," Sam said, "There's lots for you to learn." He beckoned for him to follow as he rose and made his way out the kitchen door in to the library, with Dexter following in short order.

Castiel, meanwhile, had been standing back a bit, staring silently at Dean, a strange expression on his face.

"What is it, Cas?" Dean pressed, returning the angel's gaze.

"I'm not entirely sure," he returned, frowning as he tried to puzzle it out for himself, "But I felt something else this time."

"Like what?"

"I may be mistaken—souls from other universes are somewhat peculiar owing to their origin and development in universes with potentially differing laws of physics and nature," he paused.

"But I found something like darkness inside him this time."

"Dark like, what exactly? Remnants of vampire?" Dean pressed, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees as he spoke.

"No, I've seen vampires' souls. This is not that. This is something from inside a human. It's like something inside him was corrupted, tainted."

"Corrupted? You're not saying he's a demon-" Dean sputtered.

"No, you know I can identify demons from quite a distance." Cas shook his head. "This is something different, like a part of him became twisted."

"So what, exactly are you saying, Cas? In case you didn't get the memo, he's asking us to teach him to hunt." Dean said grimly. "Now what the hell do you want me to do with him? I didn't wanted him here to start with—"

"I don't know. He doesn't belong here, in this universe. Perhaps it's merely a fluke of his soul adjusting to the shock of transitions between universes, or maybe it's normal for someone from his universe—I don't know."

"So what the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know, Dean. I'm sorry, I wish I did. I would ask around except I don't think anyone else would know. Just…watch him." With that, Castiel disappeared, leaving Dean staring darkly at the empty expanse of wall.


	18. Chapter 18

I was blown away by all the reviews with the new plot development. Thanks for reading! And as always, enjoy.

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><p>Sam stood with Dexter in the library.<p>

"Yeah, and see, all that is on werewolves." He pointed to a particular shelf on one of the bookcases. "That one," he said, now turning to indicate a file that lay on the desk "You might be interested in. It's about vampires."

"Oh, so…" Dexter murmured absently.

"Yeah, contains the cure recipe, among other things. You have no idea how important all this information is. It's how we know to save people. Without that knowledge, the only option would be to kill people who were turning."

"Wow…" Dexter muttered. "So, uh, how much will I have to learn?"

"There's some pretty basic stuff to start with," Sam replied. "The more common monsters to learn to deal with, like vamps, werewolves, ghosts, demons, and then there's the research skills you'll have to build. We spend a lot of time looking for information on this stuff. It makes all the difference between living another day out there."

"Research, huh?" Dexter suppressed a smile.

"Yeah," Dean said stiffly, as he appeared in the doorway from the dining area. "There's research, there's exorcisms. I'd bet, there's no way in hell you can read this." Dean grabbed a book from a shelf seemingly at random, and came forward until he was next to Dexter. His expression strange, he shoved the book into his hands, which Dexter turned over, puzzled.

"What about it?" Dexter asked after a moment, looking from the book to Dean and Sam, the former glaring at him, the latter shrugging slightly as he looked on with a bemused grin at his brother's antics.

"Well, you just gonna stand there? Open it," Dean snapped.

Dexter looked at it again, raising his eyebrows at the brevity of Dean's request, asking, "Yeah, OK, so like, what page—"

"Oh, just give it here," Dean muttered, snatching it from his hands to rip it open to a passage about halfway through.

"Read. Read like your life depends on it, because if you can't do that, demons _will_ kill you."

"Alright," Dexter shrugged, settling down into an old office chair, placing the book on the desk beneath one of the green lamps.

He looked down at the faded volume for a moment, considering the ancient letters, Latin, clearly, scrambling through the recesses of his memory to dig up what he needed to translate it. He cleared his throat before beginning.

"Regna terrae, cantate deo, psallite domino. Qui fertur super caelum caeli ad orientem, ecce dabit vocem suam, vocem virtutis…." He began reading at a marked point, at first somewhat haltingly, as he got the feel for the language in his mouth again. It had been so long since he'd spoken it, but felt his flow improve as he read, not stopping until he'd finished reading the entire page.

"Huh," Sam nodded, "Not bad."

"Yeah, sure," Dean scoffed, giving his brother a look. "For a beginner. _Maybe_."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's pronouncement, asking good-naturedly,"So, how do you know Latin?"

"Science degree," Dexter said, smiling in a bid to look more open.

"I thought the other day you said you were a mercenary," Dean cut in, leaning on the desk between Dexter and the book, a little too close for comfort.

Dexter backed the chair up, its feet scraping noisily across the floor as he did so, to stand.

"It was after I came back from Iraq," he deflected, crossing his arms over his chest as he stretched his legs.

"Oh. So uh, what did you do while you were over there?" Sam asked.

"I was an intelligence specialist. Getting back, I got a degree in the life sciences. I am-_was_-a biologist," Dexter asserted, pausing for a moment as the wheels in his head spun, weaving a new lie, which he hoped to enact flawlessly. "I worked in conservation, traveled trapping animals to study the populations of carnivores in the state parks before, well, all of this."

"So you're saying like before, that's why you had the tranquilizer that you used on Sam?" Dean . "Because what you're saying doesn't make any damn sense. Why would a successful intelligence contractor for a mercenary outfit go back to school for biology, huh? Unless all of that is just some sort of bullshit-"

"Dean," Sam cut in, frowning as he stepped between the two, his hands outstretched as if the useless gesture would bring the debate to a halt, his usually bemused expression shifting toward exasperation. "Just stop. It's not like it would kill you to cut him some slack."

"Yeah, really, you think?" Dean jibed, giving a jerk of his head as if to punctuate the conversation as he raised his eyebrows as if to denote jest.

Yet there was a tone under that that bothered Dexter.

"Sorry," he said suddenly, his tone making the unnatural-feeling shift to apologetic. "If there's some sort of problem with me being here," he tried to channel the lostness and bewilderment he'd initially felt upon awakening from the cure in this strange new world. "Just tell me. Is it too much, me asking for this? I mean, I understand this isn't something you'd let just anybody do, but I mean, is there anybody more suited for it really? I fight, I know Latin, I've done research, and—" He let his voice catch in his throat a little here, "I really don't' have anywhere else to go. But, just be straight with me, please. Is this too much?"

"Yeah, kind of," Dean said, giving Dexter a harsh look that seemed intended to intimidate.

"Alright then. I…I guess you can get me that bus ticket you talked about," he muttered, sighing, this time not even having to pretend to be crestfallen.

"No," Sam said, shaking his head."Absolutely not. You aren't going anywhere. It's not your fault he's being like this, which is actually, if you ask me, is completely unreasonable. Dean, if you have a problem with him, you need to get it out, alright?"

"What problem?" Dean slouched against the desk now, crossing his arms, his tone infuriatingly condescending.

"Clearly you have some sort of problem with him being here," Sam said, "But anyways, if you won't own up to it, whatever. I don't know what to tell you."

"Uh," Dexter said awkwardly, collecting himself as he shook his head, "I'll uh, go pack the stuff we got in town, if you two need to talk, or, whatever." With that he walked off down the hallway to his room, the weight of it pressing down on him again. So close, yet so far, he decided. Then, was it any surprise he didn't fit anywhere, he wondered.

Dean waited until the door slammed shut behind him to move.

"You might ought to know," Dean said, "What Cas said after you left the room."

"Really? Is that what all this is about? Because you've been going on like this ever since we found him."

"Yeah, that's exactly what this is about," Dean asserted, sitting down in one of the office chairs, leaning back to put his feet on the desk.

"So, what did Cas say?" Sam asked, frowning curiously.

"There's apparently something wrong with his soul," Dean said.

"His soul? Like what?"Sam made a puzzled face, shifting as he spoke.

"Same thing I said," Dean muttered, "But apparently there's something—and these are Cas' words, not mine, before you go saying I'm blowing it out of proportion-'twisted,' and 'dark,' in there."

"Dark?" Sam mused, shaking his head.

"And twisted. Don't forget twisted," Dean said with just a little too much satisfaction, earning a look from Sam.

"Yeah, I got that the first time, Dean. But couldn't he tell why?" Sam asked.

"Nope. Sure couldn't."Dean replied smugly.

"But we know he's not a vampire anymore, and not a demon—" Sam sat down in another chair now, pressing his fingers together

"Nope. This is something different. He's totally, 100% angel certified human." Dean waved a hand as if to illustrate the totality of Dexter's culpability for his defect. " Whatever it is, it's on him, not some sob story born-this-way monster crap."

"OK, so…" Sam puzzled, "That's why your'e treating him even more like crap than usual. But not why you've had a stick up your ass over him for the past week. What's been with that?"

"Sam I've told you. I just don't like the dude. He tried to kill you. And me. We'd both have been vamp snacks if Cas hadn't shown up just then, and you know it. Even now, there's just something about him that I don't trust. And now with the shit about his soul, and his changing stories—I do not like it at all, man. I don't want him here. He doesn't belongin this universe, like Cas said, and maybe he doesn't' belong anywhere at all. Either way, we are _way_ better off without him."

"Are you sure, is that all Cas really said?" Sam pressed. "I get it, you don't like him, gut feeling, whateve. But what did Cas say, really? What did he think is causing this soul problem?"

"Said it could be anything, really," Dean snapped, "But that's not the point! We do not need to take any chances. I mean, we have the single largest warehouse of knowledge about everything bad out there that ever existed. Question is, do you want to hand that over on a silver platter to a dude we know nothing about from another fucking universe who could have who-knows-what shit lurking around inside him?"

"I get it. Really. You don't like him. But there's nothing apparently wrong with him right now besides whatever this soul thing is. He's not a demon. He walks right through the traps. He's not a vampire anymore. He's not a werewolf or shapeshifter. He touches the silver in the kitchen without any problems, and you said yourself, he's '100% angel certified human.' What more do you want? We can't know everything about him, even if he was from this world, it's not like Google is omnipotent. He's had a hard time. I'm not saying marry him or whatever. Just a couple more days to teach him how to survive all the bloodthirsty crap out there is all. Then if you still hate him, fine, he can go. You'll never have to see him again if you don't want to."


	19. Chapter 19

Sam moved to stand now, stalking back off toward Dexter's room.

Reaching it, he knocked at the door, trying not to let the whorls of emotion cloud his expression as the door opened.

"Hey," Dexter grunted, nodding for him to come in through the crack he opened the door to.

"Thanks," Sam said, more to fill the awkward silence than to actually bother thanking him for letting him in.

"So, uh—" Sam began, trailing off as he stared at the walls looking for words to say what he wanted to convey. Walls that still had pictures of Channing and Ms. Tran, staring smiling from the photos.

He looked away quickly, in such a way that he happened to meet Dexter's gaze, who raised his eyebrows inquisitively at the sudden change in demeanor.

"What's wrong?" Dexter shrugged.

"Uh, nothing," Sam replied, shaking his head. "Sorry, it's just…a lot goes on around here and Dean doesn't trust much of anybody…"

"You need me to go," Dexter nodded, sighing as he put down the clothing he had been putting away in the dresser.

"No. That's not it," Sam replied, shaking his head. "That's not it at all. Dean can get mad for all I care. He can stand to come down a few notches. He's paranoid, although it's not like we don't have reason to be. God, this is hard to explain. Although… Maybe if I told you a little more about how we got into this, it would make more sense."

"So, I don't have to leave," Dexter nodded. "And, yeah, what the hell? Maybe explaining to me how you learned it will make this all a little easier."

"So, it started when we were young. A demon killed our mother, burned our house, and our dad took off with us looking for it. That was how we grew up, me and my brother, traveling the country, living all sorts of places for a few weeks or months at most, before we packed up and hit the road again for the next monster sighting or report of weird activity." Sam barely had to think of which details to avoid. The absent emptiness the less-flattering facts brought to his gut made the omissions instinctive. "So, we grew up hunters. You basically travel, find people who need help, fight things that need killing, and do what nobody else knows how to do."

"Yeah, I kind of got that much," Dexter said sheepishly, sitting down on the bed.

"Really?" Sam asked with a look of surprise. "How'd you know our history?"

"Well, Dean told me some of that on the way to town earlier," Dexter said. "Before he blew up over…whatever that was."

"Yeah, about that," Sam sighed, leaning on the wall as he spoke. "It's kind of a long story, but, Cas, the angel that we called earlier? He found something strange with your soul."

"My soul?" Dexter scoffed, before continuing with a laugh. "Sorry, look, it's just in my universe, there's no such thing as souls. Seems like you're telling me I'm a fairy or something else insane like that."

"We've done fairies too," Sam joked. "You're definitely not one of them."

"So, what was it about my soul?" Dexter asked, gravity making his voice lower.

"Well, we're not entirely sure," Sam said in a measured tone, "But Cas said it seems sort of…twisted."

Dexter felt something inside him sink. "Wh-what?" He made a face, the uncertainty escaping in his voice. "Is there something wrong with my soul? I—I thought the cure took care of that." He added quickly, allowing the terror of potential discovery to flow into a more acceptable explanation.

"No, no, relax," Sam sighed, shaking his head. "You're human. No vampire left in there, Cas said that, too. He thinks it's more likely something to do with changing universes. Anyway, sorry, you don't need to worry about that, but, the point I was getting to is, that's why Dean's acting like this."

"What, he's worried? About _me_?" Dexter asked, making a face as if to show how ludicrous the idea was.

"Sort of," Sam muttered, groaning inwardly at the pathetic attempt to explain it, which was going absolutely nowhere. "Anyway, the point is, he'll deal with it. Don't pay him any mind. You'll have a few days to learn as much as you can, and then, well, we'll see."

"Oh," Dexter said. "So, really not kicking me out." He smiled, "What's next?"

"Next?" Sam said, beckoning to the door, "You learn how to fight monsters."

"Great." Dexter stood, following him out the door back to the library.

…..

Dexter leaned over the table, piles upon piles of folders and books open, the notebook he'd been writing in nearly saturated with ink from the notes he'd been taking. He sat back in his chair, trying to stretch the muscles in his aching hand. They'd been at it for four hours.

"You weren't kidding when you said research," Dexter murmured to Sam with a wry grin. "I don't think I've done this much since college."

"Yeah," Sam shrugged, standing from where he'd been sitting at the next desk to stretch. "Just another day here for us. We did so much of this as kids, research for term papers was a breeze…"

"Yeah, speaking of, where'd you go?" Dexter asked, hoping the conversational tone would help cover any undue enthusiasm he'd been displaying earlier.

"

"So, you ready to go back over it?" Sam asked.

"Sure," Dexter muttered, resting his chin on his hands as he leaned on the desk.

"You see something with glowing eyes and a sword that appears suddenly. What is it?" Sam quizzed.

"Angel," Dexter said with a tilt of his head.

"And what do you do with an angel?"

"If it's combative, stab with an angel blade or use sigils."

"Right. How do you make sigils?"

"Blood, on a flat surface, press hand to center when they're done, and off they go."

"Good. OK, so, it has black eyes, what do you do?"

"That's a demon. Angel blade again, or, devil's trap and exorcize it using this," he replied, tapping the page of his notebook where he'd written in the words to the exorcism.

"Great. What do you use on ghosts?"

"They can't cross lines of salt, and iron repels them, but the permanent solution is to salt and burn the body. Like you do with pretty much everything. Salt and burn."

"Salt and burn's right," Dean called as he came through the door from the hallway. "Like we'd have done to you if you hadn't taken the cure."

"Dude! Enough!" Sam exclaimed, jumping from his seat to meet Dean in the doorway.

"No," Dexter said, his tone diplomatic, "Actually he's not wrong. If everything you've told me is right, that's exactly what you should do to stop a vampire. After chopping its head off, that is."

"Whaddya know, Sammy?" Dean jibed, "Looks like you made yourself a proto-hunter out of this freak."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes.

"Doesn't mean you'll survive half a day out there, though," Dean said, looking at Dexter pointedly.

"We'll see," Dexter said, suppressing a grin. If they knew, he thought silently. If they knew….

"Yeah, we'll see alright." Dean said. "Tomorrow. From then, you're on your own. "

"I know. You have to move on. And so do I…" Dexter frowned at the notebook in front of him. "I just hope I know enough by then..."

"Look, anytime you need anything," Sam said. "Give us a call. We're hunters, not hermits. There may not be many of us, but when something goes down, and you need help, we'll be there."

"Yeah, sure," Dean rebuffed. "You, Sam. Go do whatever you want with vamp guy here. No surprise. I'll be right here, or wherever there's monsters to gank when you get back."

"Thanks for the permission," Sam jabbed back irritably.

Dexter suppressed a laugh at this, burying his face in the notebook to double-check the exorcism's accuracy.


	20. Chapter 20

The afternoon had worn on into evening, Dexter 's tired eyes and full mind leaving him mentally spinning in circles. Sam had left the library a couple hours before to go practice shooting in the range on the other side of the bunker, and Dean was, well, elsewhere, to the best of Dexter's knowledge. And he didn't really care where, either. He dismissed the matter simply, thinking, better he's not in my face.

He sighed, leaning on the desk as he flipped absently through the notebook, tucking in some photocopies of texts he'd printed and paper clipped to the pages. He'd been working on double-checking his notes, and when finished with that, read through the notebook again, he had a better idea where different sorts of information were.

His eyes were tired, though, the pages beginning to all look the same. He pushed his chair back, standing from his desk. He grabbed his notebook and made his way back to what he'd begun tentatively referring to mentally as his room, although even just thinking of it in the personal possessive brought up the mental footnote that he wasn't entirely welcome. Not that this bothered him. It felt natural as anything, something decades of pretending and hiding in plain sight had made second nature.

He put the notebook down on the bedside table, sitting back to lounge on the bed for a moment, hoping the physical relaxation would allow his mind the time to do the same.

If Dean's serious, he thought, I have another day or two, max, before I have to hit the road. Plans, I need to plan... If I'm going to hunt, I need to get a car, supplies, the works…

The savings he'd left in Oregon crossed his mind before he shook his head to chase away the improbable thought, anger at the loss following it. No, if anyone found them, they were definitely gone, as were his laptop and van. Everything, everything would surely be gone by now. No, he'd have to start again.

The brothers, he thought absently, made their way through fraud and gambling. A smile formed as a new idea crossed his mind. With a computer, he realized, he could put to use he hacking skills he'd so long neglected save for the purposes of covering his tracks. Now, maybe, that could be a source of income if he looked in the right places.

He was roused from his thoughts when he heard the door open, footsteps coming up the hallway.

"Hey, Dean," he heard Sam call out in the hall.

Standing, he went out to see what was going on.

"Yeah?" Dean replied from where he was, walking towards the kitchen.

"Thinking supper yet?"

"Yeah, I've been wanting a steak."

"Sounds good," Sam nodded.

"Dexter, you want anything?" he asked.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I'll take whatever you're having. I'll just be in here, though, studying." Dexter shrugged. "Let me know when it's ready."

"Alright," Sam agreed. "Will do."

...

"So get this," Dean said as Sam came to the table with his plate.

"Yeah? What is it?" Sam replied, sliding into a seat beside Dean.

"There's some nasty stuff in Ahoskie," Dean said as he paused to take a bite of rice.

"What about it?"

"Series of disappearances there, over the past couple weeks, right? Well, this morning, they found a bunch of bodies. Completely gutted." Dean quirked his head as he spoke.

"So? Whaddya think?" he followed up with he question after Sam failed to respond for a few moments, staring quietly at the vegetables, grilled chicken and rice on his plate instead.

"Yeah, no, it sounds like it might be something I guess," Sam replied contemplatively.

"You guess, what? I mean, to me that says lead. Big bold letters right there." Dean took a big bite of seak.

"Yeah," Sam shrugged. "Ahoskie. Where is it, again?"

"North Carolina." Dean supplied. "Ready for a road trip?"

"Guess so," Sam replied, shrugging as he took a tentative bite of his veggies.

"So, gonna get rid of vamp guy?" Dean asked, "Coz it's a good ways off, and whatever this is, it's serious shit."

"No, he doesn't know enough yet," Sam shook his head. "I think it's a good idea if he came along."

"Oh you're kidding me," Dean snorted so that he appeared at risk of inhaling a bite of rice.

"No, I'm not, actually. Look, your car, your call, I guess, but I'm not comfortable letting him go yet. . And…yknow, I haven't always liked everything you did, either. You had Benny. I mean-"

"Fine," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. "If I will get you to shut up about it. But he stays the hell out of the way."

" I don't think that will be an issue," Sam returned. "He's already asking if he's too much trouble…"

"Too much trouble? The guy's been nothing but!" Dean snarked, thumping the table with his hand for emphasis, making the glass of water Sam had shake slightly.

"Yeah," Sam rolled his eyes. "Because I'm sure he wanted to be a vampire."

"You know what I mean," Dean muttered. "Don't go pretending I'm being the unreasonable one here."

"Yeah, sure, I do know exactly what you mean," Sam jibed with a wry grin.

"Whatever, dude,' Dean shrugged. "Long as he stays the hell out of the way, alright? And if you ask me, I'm being really freaking generous."

"I know," Sam nodded. "Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, don't go on about it. I might change my mind," Dean grumbled, rolling his eyes as he took a swallow of his beer.

This earned a chuckle from Sam, who dug into his food now, wanting to finish before it got cold, but also eager to tell Dexter, who had insisted on eating holed up in his room, studying the lore.

….

"Hey, Dexter?" Sam knocked on the door, which Dexter opened quickly, plate in hand.

"Yeah?" He asked, expression inquisitive.

"So, I have some news," Sam said, smiling.

"What about?" He frowned, sitting on the foot of the bed.

"Well, it looks like we might have a case," Sam explained.

"A case? What sort?"

"Not sure yet, although first glance it looks like some sort of animal-like monster. Victims are gutted."

"So, you'll be going I guess," Dexter nodded.

"Yeah, we're gonna be leaving for North Carolina in he morning, if you want to tag along."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. You're not ready for action yet, but you can watch and learn."

"God, that sounds awesome," Dexter grinned. "So, when do we leave?"

"5:00 AM," Sam replied, nodding. "So you'll be ready?"

"Yeah, definitely," Dexter smiled, a look taking root in his eyes that made Sam feel just a little uneasy. He blinked and it was gone.

"Night," he muttered as he turned away.

"Yeah, seeya in the morning then," Dexter returned.

Oh well, he told himself as he walked away out the door. I'm just letting all that soul stuff get to me...


	21. Chapter 21

Before the sun even thought of breaking the horizon, the brothers were up, Sam manning the coffee machine and making eggs and toast while Dean went in and out of the bunker, making sure all their supplies were in the Impala.

Dexter awoke to the sounds of their scuffling and movements, which echoed through the early morning quiet in the bunker.

He groaned, stretching momentarily before rolling out of bed, slipping into clean jeans, flannel shirt, boots and jacket, gathering up the bag he'd prepared the night before.

He headed to his door, doing a once-over to make sure he had everything, not that there was much he could forget anyways. He double checked his notebook with all the information was in his bag. Certain everything was in order, he stepped out in to the hall.

"Alright then," Sam called as he saw him emerge from the bedroom. "We'll eat on the road. Everything's ready. Let's go."

Dexter nodded, following quickly behind Sam, who carried a cooler with what he guessed contained the food.

They went up the stairs, out of the bunker into the still-dark morning, where the Impala was parked in the drive, Dean sitting ready to go at the wheel.

Dexter got in the back seat, putting his bag beside him. Sam got in, Dean backed out from the driveway, flying away over asphalt as the engine roared to life.

Sam handed him an egg and toast sandwich wrapped in a napkin, which Dexter took, nodding. He relaxed into the back seat, eating as they drove.

He fell asleep again before the sun rose, startling awake time indeterminate later to the blaring of the radio, which Dean was singing along to.

Not bothering to complain, Dexter rolled his eyes, settling on trying to distract himself from what he found an obnoxious level of noise by rereading his notes.

Sam chuckled when Dexter sighed as the song changed again, this time to one even louder.

"Yknow, you might want to get some earplugs next time we stop for gas if music's not your thing," Sam suggested.

"Thanks, I think I will," Dexter grumbled.

"Dude, my car, my music," Dean asserted. "You don't like it, you're more than welcome to walk."

"Sorry," Dexter mumbled, gluing his eyes on a passage he'd photocopied about werewolves.

They eventually stopped for gas and lunch sometime towards noon, where Dexter mercifully was able to procure earplugs. Most of the available lunch offerings, he found too greasy and distasteful, although Dean wolfed down the most artery-clogging selections with gusto. Dexter and Sam instead ordered grilled versions of chicken dishes, retreating to eat in the car.

The rest of the day, he found more bearable, with the help of earplugs and a steely determination not to let the annoyances get to him. A hunt, he decided, his first hunt, was worth however untold many hours of low-grade torture being trapped in a car with the Winchesters presented. Just this once, to get a feel for any differences from stalking his typical targets, he assured himself, and he'd strike out alone…

They drove on as the afternoon wore into night, stopping for food and gas again once more. After so many hours, he was certain he'd memorized all the information in his notebook, so once darkness fell, he didn't bother pulling out the flashlight he'd packed, instead letting himself indulge the desire to sleep. It was easier to do this time, as at some point the music had been turned back down, allowing Sam to doze as well.

He didn't awaken until early in the morning, stopped at a gas station, when Dean and Sam switched spots so Sam could drive while Dean slept.

Dexter would've much liked to go back to sleep, the relative quiet making the idea welcoming, except by he couldn't relax because of how his back hurt from sitting in the same position for the past 15 hours. Grumbling to himself, he stretched out as much as he could across the back seat, rolling up his coat as a makeshift pillow to keep the door handle form digging into the back of his head.

He drowsed off again as they passed a sign declaring their welcome to Virginia, which stood out in the glare of the headlights. "How much longer?" He muttered, half-asleep.

"About 4 more hours," Sam replied. "You don't like long car trips, huh?"

"What? No, I just usually don't sleep in back seats is all," he grumbled.

"Yeah, well, we need to get there fast. So although we don't prefer this setup either—god knows, Dean hates anyone else driving his car, even me, but it's kinda how it needs to be if we're gonna get there in time to make any difference."

"Fine, fine," Dexter groaned, allowing the silence of sleep to swallow his mind again.

He awoke to glaring sunlight and the sound of the front door of the car snapping shut. They were in the parking lot of a motel. "Look you coming in or what?" Dean called, to which Dexter responded quickly.

"What—yeah. I'd love to change clothes."

"Fine. Come on then. We're meeting the local PD in an hour."

"Alright," Dexter muttered, righting himself, ignoring the protests of his achingly stiff limbs as he followed them into the motel room.

…

They left the room within 30 minutes, piling back into the Impala, Dean at the wheel this time.

"So, what sort of monsters do you think it is this time?" Dexter asked.

"Dunno yet, but they left a bunch of bodies completely gutted," Dean replied. "So it's damn nasty."

"Oh, OK…." Dexter trailed off as they pulled into the downtown area, driving through and then towards the other side of town from the motel, at least as far as Dexter could tell.

They pulled in to an old farm-path, stopping behind a clot of police cars that dotted the field just before the tobacco plants started.

The brothers got out, straightening the ties and jackets of the suits they wore to pose as agents.

"So uh, this is it?" Dexter asked, getting out as well despite the look Dean gave him.

"Yeah, this is where the bodies were found," Sam replied.

"So, can I go look?" Dexter asked, cursing his lack of disclosure of relevant details.

"Dude, why are you even bothering asking?" Dean scoffed. "I mean, really, no badge, you're not getting in there."

"Well, we could say he's what, a ridealong or something?" Sam suggested, which made Dexter's hope rise for a moment.

"Ride alongs stay in the car," Dean muttered. "And since when have you heard of feds doing ride alongs? I don't—"

"I'll stay behind the tape," Dexter said, holding his hands up as if he were making a peace offering. "They don't even have to know I'm here with you."

"Fine. But you keep the hell out of the way." Dean muttered as they made their way past the cop cars at the edge of the field, walking back to the police tape line that was stretched between stakes and the treeline.

"No civilians beyond this point," a man in uniform said, stepping forwards.

"We're FBI," Dean nodded, pulling his badge to show the officer, as Sam did likewise.

"Oh, sorry, you two come on in then," the officer replied hastily. "The lieutenant said you'd be coming."

"And who's this?" The officer asked, eyeing Dexter.

"That's a friend. He's studying law, wanted to get a feel for cases. Is it OK if he hangs out back there?" Sam supplied.

"I guess so. As long as he doesn't cross the line," the officer said.

"Great, thanks," Sam said as he and Dean ducked under the police tape, following the officer back towards the area the bodies had been found.

As the wind shifted, Dexter noticed the wind held an edge of death, which although he knew the bodies would have been removed a day or so before, the smell lingered.

Growing tired of waiting by the line, and of the strange looks from officers who watched it, he went back to the car.

…..

They were holed up in a diner, discussing the findings of the case while they waited to order.

Sam handed Dexter a large printout, a picture of one of the horrifically mangled bodies in it.

"This is what it left behind," he said quietly.

"It was what, eight, twelve hours from time of death when this was taken?" Dexter mused, gazing at the pictures, which he held low to the table, hoping not to attract the attention of the other diner patrons. He already had enough to worry with…

"How could you tell?" Sam asked.

"The insects in the picture. If it was longer than that, judging by how the weather is now, if nights are about 15 degrees cooler than days, there would have been more."

"How the hell'd you figure that, though?" Dean grunted.

"Y'know that biology degree? I took a course in necropsies. Same principles apply to forensics, though," Dexter lied, hoping it convinced them.

"Necropsy, huh?" Dean asked.

"Like animal autopsy," Dexter supplied.

"Oh, OK…"

"So, what would you like?" The waitress popped up, addressing Dexter first. He quickly slid the photo bac in the envelope, conscious of

"Soup, depending on what kind you have," he said.

"We have tomato with meat and vegetables today. Is that OK? And it comes with toast." She asked.

"Yeah, that's fine."

"And how about you two?" She addressed Sam and Dean now.

"I'll have a burger, all the way, and fries," Dean said.

"House salad, please," Sam nodded.

"Alright, it should be ready shortly," she returned, scribbling on her notepad as she walked off back towards the kitchen.

A few minutes later their food was out,

"Strong stomach, huh?" Dean chuckled as Dexter dug in to his soup a few minutes later, still looking at the pictures of the scene.

"What? I told you, I've done necropsies. I've seen worse. Way worse. I mean, the paper version's nothing on the real thing."

"Still that's animals, not human bodies," Sam remarked.

"Yeah, but bodies? There's not much along those lines that Iraq didn't send my way already," Dexter muttered, projecting what he hoped was stoicism.

"Yeah, true," Sam replied. "Sorry."

"Eh, can't fix the past," Dexter muttered.

"Alright, so," Dean interrupted. "I'm thinking we're gonna head to interview the mother of the one victim they've identified so far."


	22. Chapter 22

….

When they pulled up to the house, Sam and Dean climbed out, Dean pausing to speak before he slammed the driver's side door shut.

"You stay in the car this time, understand? We don't need you and your 'I like to necropsy shit' self screwing this up."

Dexter responded with a muted grunt and a shrug, burying his nose again in the now quite familiar contents of his notebook as the brothers walked up the driveway to the front door.

They knocked, and were momentarily ushered inside by a woman who appeared in the doorway.

Dexter poured all his attention into quizzing himself on the signs of different types of monsters to see if he could identify them.

He heard a loud noise a few moments later which drew his attention. There was a loud bang, followed by shouting and the sound of glass shattering—Dexter dropped the notebook, searching briefly for a weapon, which he spotted in the form of an angel blade which was tucked in a box on the floor of the back seat. He grabbed it, standing to run to the door, which he kicked open, holding the sword high as he assessed the situation—three clawed, fanged humanoid creatures were fighting the brothers, and by present appearances, neither party was winning. Two were ganged up on Sam, one neck to-neck with Dean, exchanging blows.

"Hey!" he shouted, the creature going at Dean startled momentarily, allowing Dean to get a shot off with his gun, which he had wrenched from the creature's grasp during the confusion.

One of the two that had been going at Sam dove for Dean, now growling, a little too late as a bullet exploded into its chest cavity, sending it sprawling to the floor, blood blooming in a large puddle.

The remaining one, the largest of the three, was on Sam, exchanging blows, moving too quickly in and out near Sam for Dean to get a shot off. Dexter stepped in from behind it, sending a shove with the angel blade through the creature's core.

With a gasp, it stumbled as he pulled the blade out; the sucking sound it made exiting the wound made him grin.

It fell forwards against Sam, who threw it aside, letting it hit the ground with a dull thud.

"Thanks, I guess," He panted, pushing hair out of his face.

"Yeah, so what the hell happened here?" Dexter asked, staring at the blood-spattered carpet before him, the rush of the kill coursing through him. Grisly, horribly messy, but…ever so satisfying. It had been many, many months. He almost didn't care about the mess and splatter that he knew a forensics team could use to identify him. If he existed here...he reminded himself. Although building a record of murders associated with DNA or fingerprints wasn't going to do, either. Even here. As the absurd adrenaline high waned, he began to feel the burning desire to locate bleach and scrub brushes to meticulously wipe away every trace, but he tamped it back, knowing instinctively that even revealing the slightest bit of behavior related to the Code could spell danger. He held back, waiting for an answer, rooting himself to the spot.

"Yeah, so, turns out the family were the ones that did it. They killed their own fucking daughter when she wanted out of their doomsday murder cult. Now fewer questions, more getting salt and lighter fluid and hauling ass," Dean replied shortly.

Dexter nodded, moving towards the door where he strode quickly to the Impala, Dean in step with him, going to the trunk which he opened, grabbing lighter fluid, whichhe handed to Sam who was now at his side before tossing Dexter a thing of salt.

"Let's do it."

They raced back inside, Dexter uncapping the salt to throw a bit on each body, Sam following closely with lighter fluid. Within a minute they were on their way back out, Dean throwing the flaming lighter down trail of lighter fluid Sam left between them. The carpet and drapes in the livingroom exploded into a ball of fire as they exited, flames appearing in the window as Dean started the Impala, Dexter and Sam climbing in quickly as they roared away.

"So…what were they?" Dexter spoke up after a few moments as they drove.

"Far as we can tell? Humans. Apparently they had an understanding with a witch that they'd trade organs for the ability to be some sort of wannabe werewolves. You know that's an angel blade, you had, right? It's not silver. It wouldn't have killed a real werewolf."

"Yeah, but, organs? They killed their own daughter for organs?"

"Yeah, guess so. The mother was getting ready to say what exactly the deal was before you came in and we finished things." Dean muttered.

"Not that we mind. We've done witches before, and we have a pretty good idea why you'd want to keep one on your good-ish side. Holding up a deal and all that." Sam finished.

"So you're going to go after it?" Dexter asked hopefully.

"We'll worry about the witch later. Right now it's more don't-get-caught." Dean grunted.

"Oh, ok. So where are you guys heading now?" Dexter asked.

"Back to the bunker," Sam nodded to Dean. "Considering there's gonna be cops and fire department investigating and interviewing witnesses, we don't need to be anywhere near here when they get around to figuring out our descriptions and all that."

"You mean your car," Dexter nodded. "It's not the best thing to drive when you need to be inconspicuous, you know."

"Just shut up already," Dean cut him off, rolling his eyes.

Dexter shrugged. "Look, I've overstayed my welcome. I get it. But I know I can do this now. So…next bus stop…let me off. You never have to hear from me again."

…

They spent a few hours driving up into Virginia before stopping. The diner they picked was across from a bus station, per Dexter's request.

They climbed out of the car, Dexter gathering his bags as he spoke, the brothers gearing up to eat.

"Yeah uh, sorry, I know I kinda came crashing in back there," Dexter shrugged, "But I guess now we know, yknow, I can do it."

"Guess so, " Sam chuckled at the understatement. "You did good. I mean I had it, but…you did good. Especially for a first kill."

"Oh don't go inflating his weird-ass ego," Dean rolled his eyes as he spoke.

"No, I know," Dexter replied, "I haven't been the most convenient person to have around, but I think I oughtta try doing this on my own."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, I'm positive. It's time for me to go. Monsters to kill and all that. Anyhow, uh, thanks for the ride, the notes, and, y'know, letting me keep my head," Dexter nodded, his tone light.

"Alright then. " Sam waved.

"Yeah, sure," Dean grunted. "Seeya never."

With that, Dexter walked away into the long shadows of the afternoon towards the bus station across the street, the hundred dollar bill Sam had given to him clenched in his hand.

This was it, he decided. The future, once again, was wide open.

...

A few months later:

'What the hell is this?" Dean muttered to himself as he crept past the beaten up cargo van, the presence of which somehow didn't sit right with him, toward the abandoned utility building he'd heard local kids whisper about being haunted. He went to the window, trying to gaze in, but all but a tiny sliver of artificial light at the top was blocked by something. He gazed at the light spilling from crack of the door, listening to a moaning that emanated from inside, along with the rise and fall of voices arguing. grabbing his phone.

Hey, Sam. 2235 Glasgow Rd, asap. Something's up. He pressed send, glad he'd muted his phone so that the sounds it typically made wouldn't betray his presence.

…

"Oh, fuck…." Dexter muttered, ducking as a bang resonated through the room, the door flying open.

"Oh, my god, help me—" the man lying bound on the table screamed.

"Hey, vamp freak, care to explain what the fuck this is?" Dean's tone was edged in suspicion, the gun he held in his hand trained on Dexter's core.

"Please, help me, this sicko's trying to kill me!" The man pleaded again.

"Not just yet," Dean muttered. "Depends on what you are. So let's hear it."

"I'm just doing what you taught me," Dexter murmured, holding his black-gloved hands out from his body to show he was unarmed.

"Really? Try again, coz there's no way in hell you learned any of this from us." Dean glared at Dexter over his gun, his tone unwavering.

"I did my own research, this is to make for easy cleanup—" Dexter offered.

"If you say so," Dean scoffed. "What kinda monster you got there, huh?"

"Shapeshifter," Dexter said, his expression expectant, something about which Dean didn't find at all comforting.

"Oh my god, he's psychotic, and so are you! I'm not some sort of—monster—oh my god—" the man shouted again.

"You don't say," Dean chuckled. "God, if I haven't heard that plenty of times before."

"So you agree he's lying," Dexter shrugged, chuckling as if something was remotely funny. "You know they'll do anything to get out of it. Now if you'll let me, I'd like to finish what I started."

"Only if you prove it," Dean frowned, "Because right now I'm not too sure about you either. This looks seriously weird, even for huning." He followed closely as Dexter moved towards a tray of supplies where his knives lay.

Dean followed beside him, placing his gun in its holster at his hip, although his hand still hovered over it.

"Wait just a fucking minute. It says stainless, right there," Dean muttered as Dexter selected a blade.

Dean grabbed Dexter roughly by the arm, twisting him around to face him.

"Now you're gonna tell me the fucking truth," Dean demanded, tone cold.

"Really? How about you let go of me?" Dexter sputtered, throwing a punch to Dean's head that he dodged agilely, grabbing for his gun as he moved away a few steps, training the muzzle on Dexter.

"Think about this, I'm human," Dexter groaned.

"Human? You know what else? That's the only way that'd have worked is if that guy's human too." Dean nodded to the man who lay shivering dumbly on the table. "You're either single biggest dumbass who's ever wanted to kill a shifter with a steel knife, or you know that already and he's not a shifter."

"He's not human, I swear," Dexter returned.

"No, I am—" The man on the table protested again.

"You, be quiet. I'm not taking a potential shifter's word for it. And you, well you better damn well prove it Then you get to live." Dean snapped.

"Alright," Dexter replied. "Don't shoot me reaching for the knife, though, OK? I thought it was just werewolves that silver was for."

"No sudden moves, no bullets. You pull anything, though, and there's one in your brain pan." Dean nodded matter-or-factly, his tone cold.

"I don't want brain splatter everywhere," Dexter muttered. "Look, if you're so concerned about it, why don't you test him for yourself?" Dexter reached slowly for a silver tipped knife, giving it handle-first to Dean, who tried to shove it back, grimacing at a pain sudden in his hand, which when he pulled it back, saw bore a tiny red needle welt, Dexter removing the partially emptied syringe from under the handle of the knife now.

"You son of a bitch," he muttered, "Did you just fucking drug me?!"

"Yeah, sorry," he said nonchalantly, giving a creepy, small smile which made Dean's blood boil.

Dean tried to maintain his balance but the world was already pitching wildly in his view. The gun in his hand was inordinately heavy, but he fought to raise it anyways, loosing two shots, but they missed Dexter entirely, lodging themselves somewhere in the wall behind him.

Dexter came to his side, mumbling into his ear, "Why couldn't you just stay away?" He jabbed the needle into his neck now, fully emptying it. After he completed this action, he released the already unsteady hunter to let it take full effect.

There was a heavy metallic thunk as the gun fell from Dean's hands to the floor, and a sickening squelch as Dexter thrust a large knife into the man on the table's chest.

"Oh my god," Dean echoed, feeling himself lose altitude, the floor rushing up to catch him with hard concrete and plastic sheeting that whispered as the impact of his body hitting it forced air out from beneath it.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N Thanks guys, so much, for all the reviews and encouragement! It took me a year, but this is it.

* * *

><p>Everything came surging back, Dean coughing as a burning volatile chemical smell invaded his mind.<p>

His eyes peeled open, coughing again, he became aware of the cold air in the room, and from his vantage point—he realized he was tied down to the table like the previous man had been, shirt opened so that his chest was exposed.

"What the hell is this? He was human, wasn't he?" Dean demanded, fighting against what he could now see were plastic bindings and duct tape around his body, his shirt ripped open to expose his chest.

"His name was Craig Dotter. He was a rapist and murderer," Dexter said coolly, "I verified his identity for myself. And there's no doubt as to his guilt. He very recently got away from a potential death penalty case on a technicality."

"So of course, you went out of your way to kill him," Dean sputtered, his tone disgusted as he tried futilely to move.

"Yes. I killed him. It had to be done. He attempted to abduct another young woman just as I intercepted him." Dexter explained, his tone calm as if what he'd just done was perfectly reasonable.

"What _the fuck_ is wrong with you?" Dean breathed, his voice ragged.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong with me, if I can use it," Dexter replied, looking down the blade of a knife he held at Dean.

"Use it? Killing people? Because this shit sure as hell, is not something we taught you. In fact, we've dealt with killers like you before. Not cause we wanted to, but coz we _had to_. And damnit if there ain't a fucking difference," Dean exhorted.

"Truth be told? I kill killers, rapists, child abusers, people the world's better off without. And now monsters of other persuasions, too." Dexter said nonchalantly, a small smile growing on his lips that made Dean shudder.

"Yeah, but you fucking _like it_." He hurled the accusation.

"Like you don't? You'd rather have killed me when I first came back to confront you and been done with it," Dexter shrugged.

"_That_ is not the same thing at all," Dean protested, the muscles of his chest standing out as he struggled, trying to move uncomfortably beneath the tight duct tape and plastic bindings. "I've only ever done what I had to. You, though, you go looking for it, and you really like it. Now, that's just sick."

"I don't just like it. I need it," Dexter said.

"Like that fucking matters?!" Dean sputtered, now openly fighting against the bindings, his movements, though tightly restricted, frantic.

"You can stop trying," Dexter asserted, looking down at Dean as he rustled ineffectually on his table. "You're not getting out of that anytime soon, and even if you did, you're weak from the sedative. No chance in a fight."

"What the fuck is with you, though?!" Dean snapped. "What's your excuse, huh? What'd your conscience take a look at the fucked up shit you do and hightail it?"

"I woke up four inches deep in my own mother's blood with my brother, locked in a shipping container for days." He looked away at the plastic-draped wall as he spoke, glancing back to Dean to analyze his reaction.

"Oh, so I see, this is one of those sob stories. I was made this way, I can't help it—"

"No," Dexter shook his head. "I _was_ made this way. My adoptive father taught me to kill. He thought it was inevitable. So…here I am, and here you are. I wasn't born a psychopath, in fact I don't entirely fit the clinical profile, so I don't pretend to use that as some excuse. Rather, I was brought up this way, believing I was this, and it's all I know. It's all a little too late now that I know better, though. I already am what I didn't have to become. So, I just use it as I see fit."

"Yeah, sure coz that makes it all OK." Dean said bitterly, his voice layered with sarcasm. "Trust me, I got one of those stories too. My family's been ripped apart by demons since before I was born. Turned out it was all a plot to and possess me and my brother. Lucifer wanted Sam and Micheal wanted me. They expected me to kill him so that they could shit on the world with the apocalypse. Fucking heaven and hell conspiring against us. But guess what? We found a way out. There's always a choice. So don't tell me that bullshit. I sure as hell am not buying it. _We know better than that_."

"It doesn't matter so much now, though, does it?" Dexter asked, his tone philosophical.

"What the hell are you going on about?" Dean replied, his voice dripping derision.

"What we were, doesn't matter. We are what we make ourselves…."

"Speaking of," Dean snorted, "What sort of shit game were you playing, trying to make yourself into with all that 'I'm a mercenary no I'm a biologist' bullshit?" Dean asked, tone harsh.

"You're right about that. Just a cover story. I was a blood spatter analyst. Before my sister who was a cop died in the line of duty, before that and my wife and…my life, falling apart, well, after that I had to run. There was nothing there for me anymore in Miami, so I came to Oregon, fell trees for awhile before the universes broke or, whatever it was that brought me here …"

Dexter shrugged. "Anyway, aside from that attitude, you seem like a reasonable enough person, not that different from me—"

"Fuck you! I _am_ different! I don't kill people for shits and giggles!" Dean shouted.

"But you kill. You hunt. It's all you know, and in your own way, you like it. Now, I don't typically kill normal people, but, you? You know, and see, that's a problem."

"You want to kill me, freak?" Dean spat, "Go ahead. All I can say is I will be pissed as hell when I come back. And you don't want to deal with Sam, either. Or Cas. And they will find you, maybe even before I come back, and they will kill you, and you'll burn in Hell. Shit, if you ever come back as a demon, I won't mind killing you again."

"Sorry to hear that," Dexter said nonchalantly, turning away for a moment to reach for something.

"Cas-" Dean shouted, taking his chance.

"Oh, no, you don't," Dexter hissed, plunging something sharp deep into his neck.

As the world began to blur, Dean made out the rustle of wings as Castiel appeared—then there was a blinding golden flash and the angel disappeared as if swept away by a wind. As his head lolled to the side, his muscles giving way, the last thing Dean saw was Dexter standing beside the wall, the plastic pealed back to reveal the crimson smears of Enochian sigils that he'd pressed his bloodied hands to.

"Ah, fuck," he wheezed, his eyelids sagging loosely down over his eyes as the last weak words passed his lips.

"Fuck's right," Dexter echoed, shaking his head to himself as he put away the syringe he'd emptied in to Dean's carotid.

Choices like this, Dexter groaned to himself. He looked at Dean, passed out on the table. It would be so, so very easy to end it right here. The one person in this universe who knew, dead. A blade across the neck, laying open the jugular and carotid, or a deft jab with knifepoint to the vena cava just beneath the ribs was all it would take. He traced the curve of Dean's sternum with a forefinger, recalling another time in which he'd not have hesitated to do so. Just a couple slashes, and that was it. The life would drain away. But then, things had changed, in every way possible, since then. Dean, he thought, is a hunter. There aren't many of us out there. And if there really are that many monsters, we need all the hunters we can get, he thought, double checking for a pulse as he weighed his options.

He found it, somewhat sluggish but present, as he expected owing to what was now a double dose of the sedatives in his system.

Alive, for now. Dead men didn't talk, but all else aside, Dean Winchester was no ordinary man…

A sudden noise shattered his contemplation. He whirled as he heard an engine pull up, and the dull thud of a car door shutting, panic mounting. Someone's coming, he thought, ducking away behind another plastic-draped table out of view of the doorway, from which direction the noise had come.

Heavy footsteps came, and with them, a voice. "Oh, my god."

Dexter chanced a glance at an angle from behind his cover.

Sam. He was running towards the table where Dean lay now.

"Dean!" He gave him a jostle, which brought no response. A look of horror grew on Sam's face, his voice flooding with panic. "Dean! Oh, my god, Dean!"

He took in a sharp breath, pressing two fingers to his brother's neck, probing for a pulse. He pulled them away when he felt something wet. Blood, he saw, running his thumb over the crimson fluid that seeped from one of two small but fresh punctures at his brother's neck.

He startled as arms encircled his shoulders. He didn't have time to even resist before he felt the punch of something sharp at his neck as a burning sensation forced its way through his arteries.

"What the hell is going on—" he choked out as he began to lose control of his limbs, slowly losing altitude as his muscles began to give out.

Dexter eased him back against the table for a moment, looking him dead in the eye. "Your brother burst in on me while I was busy. You can stop worrying, he's just drugged, but understand, if you follow me, it will not be that way next time."

"D-Dean was righ—" Sam slurred, "You're twisstehh—"

"No," Dexter sighed. "No more than—" He cut himself off as he dove to catch Sam, who abruptly slid off the edge of the table, fully unconscious now.

He grabbed him by the back of the shirt, bracing as he momentarily supported the full weight of the hunter's body, which he let hit the floor in a somewhat more controlled fashion, grabbing his arms to slow the descent of his upper body once his rear was planted firmly on the floor.

He allowed Sam's head to go back more slowly, sighing as he turned away. As he grabbed his tools, he paused, turning.

"Really though, don't follow me," he exhorted to the unconscious brothers.

With that, he alighted out the door into the darkness.

…

The first thing Sam was aware of was how horribly uncomfortable he was. Something hard pressed into his back, and his head was pounding. He tried to sit up, but everything spun.

"Whoah, there, Sammy. Slow down." Dean's voice cut through the massive haze that blotted out his senses, his vision turning a strange dull tan as he tried clumsily to open his eyes.

"Chill a minute, dude. That stuff's nasty. Takes a while to wake up." Dean again, his hands pressing Sam gently back to the surface he lay on.

Something rustled as he settled back, a strange, paperish feeling surface against his hands as his fingers instinctively searched for something to grab.

"Wh—" He groaned, trying to put words to the sensations that whirled about, nameless in his mind.

"Freak drugged us both," Dean supplied succinctly. "You came looking, I guess, if you got my text, and he jumped you too. Comes up behind you when your back's turned, right? Don't feel like you have to answer that right now. Don't spose you really can—anyways, looks like we have another monster on our list."

"Nuhhh," Sam gurgled, the sound strange as it came through is lips, still clumsy from the drugs.

"Oh, just shut up," Dean groaned, "Coz if I didn't know better, sounds like you're trying to say no. The drug's still talking, obviously."

Several long, dizzy minutes went by as Sam's body came back to him. His eyes peeled open to a too-bright room flooded with light by utility lamps that stood in the corners, the furniture, floors and walls covered in opaque white plastic sheeting, except one area, he noticed, where it was ripped back to reveal sigils smeared onto the walls in blood.

And there, kneeling on the floor beside him, was Dean, staring down expectantly.

"Alright, I guess you can sit up, now," he shrugged, noting Sam's purposeful gaze. Dean offered him a hand, which he took uncertainly, heaving himself up on his elbows with his brother's help.

Sam sat up for a few minutes, Dean waiting silently beside him.

"Alright, you ready to try to get up, man?" he asked.

"I guess," Sam assented, rolling into a kneeling position as

Dean steadied him by the arm.

Standing shakily, Sam found his way to his feet, which felt as if they were made of lead. He stumbled a few steps, following Dean out to the car, where they climbed in.

"We have to find him," Dean muttered through gritted teeth as he gunned it in reverse, turning tightly around the building as they roared off back toward the road.

"Yeah," Sam muttered, reluctance to agree tinting his voice.

"What the hell dude, you sound like you wanted to say no. Did you hit your head or something?! He's a monster—"

"Yeah, but…why would he let us go?" Sam replied earnestly, giving Dean a look.

"Doesn't matter, he's a sick fuck and he needs to be put down-"

"I mean, it just doesn't make sense to me—"

"What the hell does that matter? Sickos don't do stuff because it makes sense-"

"It doesn't, not really. I'm just saying, he had the chance to kill us, _easily_. It would have been to his benefit, he had to know that. And he didn't."

"Yeah, sure, that's great for us. But What about the next person, huh?!' Dean snapped, "They may not be so lucky!"

"I know, I don't like it either, but what do you want to do? He's gone."

"Find him!" Dean fairly shouted, flinging up a hand from the steeringwheel to gesture his exasperation.

"Dean." A deep voice came from the back seat, startling both brothers. They both looked back to see Castiel.

"Damn, Cas," Dean snapped, giving the angel a harsh glare in the rearview where their eyes met. "We talked about the whole personal space and the sudden come sudden go thing ages ago, didn't we?"

"Yes," the Angel muttered, "However, if you're finished commenting on my travel habits, I was going to say, I was extremely worried given what happened back there."

"Yeah, I was too," Dean replied angrily. "But more to the point, we have to find him."

"About that," Castiel replied grimly. "I tried, but it seems I can't track him."

"Shit," Sam muttered. "He must have lifted one of our hex bags…"

"Yeah, that would do it," Dean nodded his agreement. "Although we wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for your how-to-be-a-hunter boot camp."

"I know, alright?" Sam muttered, irritation edging into his tone. "Knowing this, I wish I hadn't trusted him either."

"Yeah, you had to go trust the serial killing psychopath with some of the most important information we have," Dean spouted.

"Hey! How were we supposed to know—" Sam began.

"Oh, I dunno, _dark twisted soul_, maybe?!" Dean suggested.

"It's as much my fault as either yours," Castiel admitted solemnly. "I could not read him definitively, and I'm sorry you paid for that."

"Yeah, well, you could've at least taken my word for it, Sam," Dean griped, sending his brother a withering look.

"I know!" Sam sputtered, shaking his head. "I was wrong. OK? I get it. What more do you want?"

"His head, on a plate," Dean jibed.

"Yeah, sure," Sam muttered, "That might the best idea for everybody involved. If we knew where he was…"

…

Two men stood in an alley, exchanging blows, one hissing as he caught the hand which held the machete the other struck with.

"What are you, a hunter?" The vampire taunted as he tried to wrench the machete from Dexter's grasp, but failed, taking a knee to the chest instead.

"Yeah," he grunted as he planted another blow to the creature's temple, this one with his left fist, rearing back his right arm with the bush knife to take a swing—at least until the vampire caught his elbow, using the momentum from the swing to jerk Dexter around so that he was backed up to the wall. He tried to squirm away, but failed.

"But you're not a normal hunter. Admit it." The vampire hissed, leaning in heavily from where he had him pinned with his back against the rough bricks, gloating with a cold smile of enjoyment at the expected fear, which Dexter refused to supply. "Oh, come on, you enjoy this." It accused, snarling boredly with displeasure at his lack of apparent terror.

"You're right," Dexter choked out as he wrenched free, his machete hand hooking back to make a hard swing. "There are monsters to fight," he said as he grunted from effort as it connected, grinning with satisfaction at the final look of shock at his blow that twisted the vampire's face. He jerked the blade free as the head fell away.

"Monsters bigger than me."


End file.
